NOOOO bc imagine being frank castle's honorary little sister who he loves and protects with his whole heart but because you're young and depressed and chaotic and incredibly relatable you're still struggling with figuring out your sexuality and then one day he introduces you to karen and you're just like this 🫠 in front of her because you think holy shit this woman is perfect gorgeous amazing smart and kind and i might have a crush on her so bad and there's hearts in your eyes and karen is oblivious to the whole situation but frank is sitting behind you two laughing to himself because he knows what's going on too damn well, and he's like this kid is going to drive me absolutely crazy 😭😭😭 OH GOD PLEASE this has been consuming my mind i need someone who is better at writing than me to write this
Summary: When something you’ve been holding close to your chest threatens to spill out, you decide to withdraw from your friends at Nelson, Murdock & Page
Note(s): This one has been sitting in my drafts for a while, I seriously debated posting it. I tried my best to treat these subject matters with respect, please let me know if I did anything wrong
Warning(s): Mentions / moment of transphobia towards the reader, talks about religion
You always knew that working at Nelson, Murdock & Page meant dealing with secrets.
People came in dragging entire histories behind them, some you knew, but most you didn’t. You sorted through case files with bruised knuckles, wiped dirt and grime off “mysteriously discovered” pages, or ignored blood still crusted into the corners of evidence photos. You learned quickly to be discreet, smiling gently when a client came in with fear stamped across their face. To shred things without asking. To care quietly.
So you thought you were pretty good at holding a secret yourself.
Until yours started to eat you alive.
You finally realized it on a Tuesday morning.
The coffee in your dented travel mug had gone lukewarm on top of a desk that was still cluttered with red-stamped files and half-filled sticky notes from the night before. You hadn’t meant for things to fall apart. You didn’t wake up one morning and decide to unravel like someone threw a spool of thread down a hallway.
You had shoved it down years ago- but then a case walked into the office.
A kid, maybe eighteen. Black hoodie pulled up tight, nails bitten down with chipped red paint, too thin for the weight in their voice. You watched their hands tremble, watched them glance sideways as they said, “It was bad where I was. They wouldn’t let me be who I am. I’m not going back.”
Graciously, Foggy had taken point on the case. You’d just been there to type, to smile, to offer them water.
Something in you cracked wide open, an oozing wound of guilt and shame thrumming in your chest.
That night, lying in bed with the city buzzing far below your apartment, you stared at the ceiling for hours. Words formed slowly in your mind, hesitant and soft, but undeniable.
I’m trans.
You don’t say it aloud, not at first. You’re content to just timidly test the syllables in your head, cradling the idea like glass- something beautiful, but dangerous. It didn’t feel like fireworks or freedom. It felt like everything stopped moving.
You remember what happened last time.
The first time you said anything- just hinted at what you were feeling- the slap across your face came faster than the rest of the sentence. They called you a mistake, an offense, a sin. Your mother cried. Your father slammed the Bible on the table so hard it cracked the wood.
You weren’t allowed back after that.
You’d only been sixteen when you learned that some kinds of love came with conditions.
So even now, years later, living in a rundown apartment you earned by scraping together paychecks and sleeping through hunger, your fear remains. The only name you could think of was Matt Murdock.
Matt had always been good to you. Not just kind, not just polite, genuinely good. The kind of good that felt rare, a warmth that settled in your ribs to fend off the chill of Hell’s Kitchen. He’d stayed late countless nights when you were behind on filing paperwork, being the first to offer you an extra bag of chips if your stomach so much as thought about grumbling. With the amount of times he had carried an extra umbrella so you wouldn’t get drenched walking home, you were surprised he didn’t have an industrial sized box tucked away somewhere in his office.
You didn’t grow up with a lot of faith in people. But Matt... Matt was different.
Which is why you didn’t know what to do now.
Because this was the same Matt Murdock who crossed himself before cases and muttered prayers under his breath when things got tense. Matt, who once told you that grace was something you had to practice, like forgiveness. Matt, who at one point actually kept a crucifix on his desk- mainly as an April Fool’s prank, but still. Matt, who always said “God help us” when Foggy explained that a client walked in with a suspicious amount of blood on their clothes. You knew that Matt was Catholic.
There’s fear dancing in your veins. Not just that Matt will reject you- but that he’ll do it kindly. That he’ll say it with sorrow in his voice and judgment in his heart. That he’ll say, “I’ll pray for you,” like a funeral, and expect you to thank him.
You love this job. You love them.
He never once judged you before. But this felt different., this felt... personal. And unfair. To him, especially, because people are allowed to believe what they believe. You didn’t want Matt to feel like he had to reconcile you with his religion. You didn’t want to even consider asking that of him. And you definitely didn’t want to be one of those people- those stories that made him feel like he had to choose between you and his God.
So you chose for him. You pulled away.
It should’ve been freeing. Instead, you sat at your desk the next morning, staring at the lines of a client intake form, your chest tightening with every tick of the clock.
Nelson, Murdock & Page was small- just a cozy floor of a Hell’s Kitchen walk-up, one half of the space converted into offices, the other half divided by old wood paneling and the occasional exposed brick wall. Your desk sat directly outside Matt’s office- you were the gatekeeper, the organizer, the one who answered phones and sorted through the chaos and tried to make sense of it all.
Normally, you liked it. The rhythm of it. The way Foggy cracked jokes and Karen passed you coffee without asking, how Matt would sometimes tap his cane twice when he needed you and you’d already be halfway to the door.
But now, every sound made you jump. Every time Matt opened his door, you kept your eyes glued to your computer screen. He was blind, but not oblivious. He could hear the change in your breathing, the way your voice wavered when you spoke. And worse- he could feel things. You didn’t know how, but somehow Matt always just... knew. When someone was scared. When someone was hiding something.
And you were hiding something big.
You learned swiftly to be quiet. You answered him with short sentences, emails instead of knocking. He notices, of course he does. He pauses at your desk one afternoon before going out for a break- white cane in one hand, suit jacket hanging open, a soft little crease between his brows that usually only shows when someone lies to him.
“You alright?” he asks. Just two words, but they hit you like a hammer.
You smile too fast. “Fine.”
He tilts his head, listening, maybe for the racing of your heart or the catch in your breath. You wonder, not for the first time, how much he really hears.
But, he doesn’t press. He just nods, adjusts his grip on the handle of his cane, and walks out of his office.
You stare at your screen for ten more minutes before realizing you’ve typed nothing. And you tell yourself- just a bad day.
Honestly, the office smelt better than most places in the neighborhood. Coffee, cheap printer toner, Karen’s vanilla lotion, Foggy’s hair gel, and Matt’s cologne- sharp and expensive, something you couldn’t name but would know anywhere. You’ve worked there long enough to memorize every creak in the floorboards, every sigh of the old building, every place where sunlight manages to filter through.
Now it was suffocating.
Foggy was next.
You’d never really had a brother, but Foggy Nelson was probably the closest thing. He was always the first to hover near your desk in the morning, leaning on the counter like he had all the time in the world. He was loud, quick with a joke, and talked with his hands so much he knocked over things on your desk at least twice a week. He’d bring you terrible bagels on Mondays and call it tradition, and a donut on Fridays to celebrate. He told you things he didn’t tell Karen or Matt, probably because you were always there, always listening.
He called you by name like it was a tether, like if he said it often enough, you wouldn’t drift too far. But you pulled anyway.
Foggy was loyal to a fault, and you knew it. You saw the way he looked at Matt- how they had an entire history built from dorm rooms and courtrooms and broken bones. If Matt turned away, Foggy would too. Not out of malice, but out of habit. You didn’t want to shut him out, but he was Matt’s best friend. If it came down to it- if Matt said something, even quietly- Foggy would pick a side. And it wouldn’t be yours.
So you started skipping lunch with him. Leaving his messages on read. You even start making excuses when he asked if you want to play board games after work. Not because you don’t trust him, but because Foggy’s the kind of person who would want to fix everything. Who would knock on Matt’s door and say something like, “Hey, I think our secretary’s going through something”. You can’t risk it, you’re not ready. You don’t want Matt to hear about it secondhand and feel cornered.
He still tries. He’s like a golden retriever in human form; warm, talkative, too emotionally intelligent in his own chaotic way. He still brings you coffee every morning with a stupid pun written in Sharpie on the side. He calls you nicknames he makes up on the spot. “Captain Clipboard.” “Schedule Sorcerer.” “Supreme Lord of the Printer”. Doesn’t stop leaving a pastry from your favorite shop on your desk, no matter how many you no longer eat. Slips you a “Hey, I’m around if you want to talk” note like it’s high school and he’s trying to be subtle.
When you leave early or take your breaks late, you dare to think you’re being clever.
Foggy finally corners you after work one day, leaning against the doorway as you pack up.
“Okay, cards on the table,” he says. “Did I do something? Did I say something dumb and not realize it? Because you’ve been acting like I have leprosy.”
You force a laugh. “No. You’re fine. I’m just... tired.”
It was the weakest deflection you’d ever attempted, and you battle the urge to cringe at yourself.
“Sure,” he says, eyes searching your face like he already knew something was wrong, “Is it the Reynolds case? Because I get it, that guy’s a creep. But you can talk to us, you know. Me and Karen- we’re here.”
You nod too quickly. grabbing your bag like it’s a lifeline. “I’m good, really. Just busy.”
“You mad at me?”
You looked up from your shoes sharply. “What? No. Why would I be mad?”
He shrugged, but not casually. “You’ve been... distant. I dunno. I just figured maybe I pissed you off and didn’t realize it.”
“No,” you said quickly, then softer, “It’s not you.”
He studied you. Then offered a small smile. “Okay. Just- if you need something, you can tell me, alright?”
He watches you go. Doesn’t push. But he looks worried.
You want to tell him, and you almost do. But then you think about Matt again.
You think: If I tell Foggy, he’ll tell Matt. And Matt will look at me like my father did. Like I’m broken.
So you don’t.
You cry in the bathroom and tell yourself again that it’s just temporary. Just until you figure out what you’re doing. Who you are. What you’re willing to risk.
You pull away from Karen last.
She’s smart. Too smart.
She starts picking up your slack without saying anything, filling in where your focus drifts. She brings you lunch, gently places a hand on your arm when your hands tremble during an intake. She had a way of seeing you even when you didn’t want to be seen- sharp eyes, sharper mind. She came to you when the files didn’t add up, trusted your instinct when something in a case felt off.
You nearly cry the first time she hugs you on instinct.
Karen doesn’t ask what’s wrong. She just says, “You’re not alone, okay?” and means it.
You almost told her. You’d felt it, the way words crept up your throat: I think I’m trans.
But then Foggy walks in, laughing about something Matt said. And it dies in your throat.
Later, against your best judgement, you find yourself sitting across from her at a café on a gray Friday afternoon. She’s talking about a witness who backed out of giving testimony, and you’re nodding along, only half-listening because something in you is breaking open.
She’s looking at you with the same quiet intensity she uses on reluctant clients. The kind of look that makes people confess things they weren’t even planning to say.
“You’ve lost weight,” she says. “Are you sleeping? You look pale.”
She had this way of seeing people. Not the way Matt did with his heartbeat-listening, lie-detecting super-sense, but with plain, human intuition. Karen Page had lived through hell and clawed her way back with grace and fire, and it made her the most emotionally observant person you’d ever met.
You make up an excuse about an errand and leave her sitting at the café.
You quickly ignore her texts after the first one: Please call me. I miss you.
You cried reading it. You didn’t deserve friends like them. Not when you were failing this spectacularly at just... being honest.
But what if you told them- what if you told Matt- and everything fell apart?
What if he couldn’t reconcile the person he knew with the truth you carried?
You didn’t want him to feel like he was being tested. Like he had to prove his compassion. That wasn’t fair.
So you stayed quiet. And more alone.
Weeks passed like fog, heavy and unclear. The firm still won its cases. Crime still crawled in the dark corners of the city. Daredevil still patrolled the rooftops, still made headlines with broken ribs and bloody knuckles.
You stopped going to the office altogether. You told yourself it was temporary.
A few weeks later, another client came in with bruises so dark they looked painted on. It was a difficult case- violent, messy, impossible to fix in a single court date- all hands on deck. You avoided eye contact as you worked intake, sat with them while they stammered through their story. You nodded, gently, when they said something that mirrored what you’d felt. About feeling trapped in a body that wasn’t yours. About not being believed.
You went home that night and cried until your throat gave out.
And in the morning, you opened a blank document and typed out your resignation- after waking up from a nightmare where your mother told you, once again, that you were disgusting.
Two weeks. It felt like enough time to vanish politely.
You didn’t say much in the email. Just that you were grateful. Just that it was time. You left the rest blank. You didn’t want to lie. You just didn’t want to tell.
You sent the email at 3 a.m. and turned your phone off at 3:01.
The next morning, you didn’t go in.
Your apartment honestly isn’t much. You live on the third floor of a building in a part of Hell’s Kitchen most people avoid after dark. Every room somehow smelled like old radiator steam and someone else’s bad cooking. Your bathroom faucet screamed every time you turned it on, and the heater worked only when it wants to. The lock on the front door sticks, the floorboards creak like they're mourning something, and your single window overlooks the alley behind a deli that never throws its trash out fast enough. But it’s yours. You got it on your own, with no help from anyone- not your parents, not your past- and that’s something.
You used to joke that the apartment had “character.”
Now, it just feels like a place you barely survive in.
After they kicked you out, you worked shifts at a twenty-four-hour diner. Slept on couches, then someone’s floor, then a shelter bed that smelled like mold and fear. You fought for every inch of stability. By the time you landed the job at Nelson, Murdock & Page, you felt like you could finally breathe again.
But now? Everything was unspooling once more. The air was too thin. You ignored texts, unanswered emails, and let the phone ring endlessly. You ate less, slept less, and seemed to exist only as a ghost. The city roared outside your window while inside, silence reigned. You pretended that the world was not knocking at your door.
Until it did.
The rain blurred the city into watercolor as you sat on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, clad in a hoodie that hid your shape and thoughts.
The knocking began quietly.
You ignored it.
Then it grew louder.
You pulled a pillow over your head and curled further under an old blanket. You had not eaten. You had not showered. You felt brittle.
“Hey,” Karen’s voice said through the door. “We know you’re in there.”
You froze.
“I brought food,” Foggy called out. “From that Thai place you like. You're gonna make me eat pad see ew on your doorstep?”
You stayed silent.
“We just want to talk,” Karen added. “You’re scaring us. And Matt’s-”
“I’m not freaking out,” Matt said, voice dry.
“You are, actually,” Foggy muttered.
“Can you please let us in?” Karen asked. “We don’t want to push. We just want to make sure you’re okay.”
You stood slowly, heart hammering. Then you hear Matt.
“We’re not leaving.”
Your breath catches, and finally you unlock the door with trembling fingers.
Karen pushes in first, soaked to the bone, eyes wide and red-rimmed. She doesn’t say anything, she just hugs you like she’s scared you’ll disappear. You stand there, stiff, until you collapse against her.
Foggy follows, dropping the food on your kitchen counter, glancing around like he’s taking inventory. He moves through your apartment like he wants to fix everything but knows he can’t. He sees the cracks in the walls. The empty fridge. The blanket with the hole in it. You see him seeing it, and your stomach twists.
You hear the guilt seep into his voice when he says, “Jesus, you’ve been living like this?”
Matt is last, wet coat draped over his forearm. He folds his cane and leans it against the doorframe, listening in the quiet. His face is unreadable behind the dark glasses, but something in his posture- tense shoulders, clenched jaw- tells you he’s been thinking too much.
Slowly, Matt asks, “Are you being threatened?”
You shake your head.
Karen steps closer. Her voice is gentler now. “Then what’s going on?”
You breathe in.
And break.
“I’m trans.”
The room goes still. Rain hits the windows like a pulse.
You don’t look at them. You stare at the peeling paint on your wall, the old photo stuck to the fridge with a cracked magnet, your hands in your lap.
“My parents found out when I was a teenager,” you say. “I didn’t even use the word then. I just said I didn’t think I was... right. That something felt off.”
The silence thickens, your throat tightening viciously, and you have to force yourself to keep going.
“They told me I was possessed, that I was insulting God. My dad said I was lost. My mom didn’t even look at me when they threw me out. I haven’t heard from them since.”
You laugh bitterly.
“And then I started realizing- really realizing- who I was. And I thought about how Matt crosses himself when we win a case. How he holds his rosary when he thinks no one’s watching. How he talks about mercy like it means something real. And I panicked.”
Karen squeezes your hand.
“I didn’t want to make you choose,” you whisper, mostly towards Matt. “Between your faith and... me.”
Matt’s jaw tightened. “You thought I’d turn my back on you.”
“I thought you might have to. Even if you didn’t want to. And if you did... I couldn’t blame you.”
Matt stepped forward slowly, as though careful not to intrude too forcefully. His voice was low and steady, though it trembled at the edges.
“My faith... it’s not something I hold against people. It’s what tells me to love them. To fight for them. If I ever use my beliefs to hurt someone- especially someone I care about- then I’m not following anything worth believing in.”
He draws in a breath.
“I’ve questioned God so many times I’ve lost count. I’ve shouted at Him. I’ve begged Him. I’ve walked away and come back. But the older I get, the more I realize- being trans doesn’t make you less worthy of love. Or grace. Or sanctuary. If anything, it means you’ve been through more hell than most of us, and you’re still here.”
You nibble a small part of your lip hesitantly.
“My parents told me being trans was a sin,” you say.
Matt’s face is tilted toward you, but his expression is distant. Remembering something, maybe.
“Then they forgot what sin really is,” he says. “Cruelty. Judgment. Abandoning someone you’re supposed to love. That’s sin.”
You close your eyes. It’s too much. It’s everything you wanted and didn’t dare to hope for.
“I thought you’d hate me.”
“I could never,” he says, voice raw. “God gave me a lot of things. Pain. Anger. But He also gave me you. And for that I’m grateful.”
Your breath breaks in your chest as tears blurred your vision.
Karen speaks next. “No one should have to choose between being who they are and believing in something bigger.”
Matt nods slowly. “God made the sky and the oceans and every strange, beautiful thing. You think He’d look at you and say, ‘Oops’? You’re exactly who you’re supposed to be.”
You wipe your face with your sleeve. The tears keep coming.
“You’re not a burden,” he said. “You’re not a test. You’re not a sin to reconcile.”
You sob.
Karen, Foggy, and Matt close in around you, a warmth you didn’t know you could still feel.
Karen clears her throat as you all separated, eyes as red as Foggy’s,“We all are so grateful for you. And we’re not letting you go through this alone.”
Foggy, sitting back on your fraying armchair, nods quickly, voice soft. “Listen, you’ve been there for all of us. You put up with my bad jokes and Matt’s brooding silences and Karen’s five coffee orders a day-”
“Hey,” Karen mutters.
“-and we’re not letting you go through this alone. You don’t have to live in a closet or this apartment.”
Karen leans forward. “I have a guest room. It’s tiny, but it’s yours if you want it.”
“You could stay with me too,” Foggy says. “I make a mean grilled cheese.”
Matt tilts his head. “My place is quiet. You could rest there, if you need it.”
You shake your head, dazed. “I can’t ask you to-”
“You’re not asking,” Karen says.
“You’ve been doing everything on your own for so long,” Foggy adds. “Let someone help you, just this once.”
The apartment feels smaller than ever. But suddenly, it doesn’t feel as empty.
You glance around- at the cracked window, the peeling paint, the thin walls. The life you’ve scraped together out of grit and survival. And then you look at them. Their soaked clothes. Their tired eyes. The way they’re here anyway.
It’s not pity on their faces. It’s care. Love, even, in its own messy, imperfect way.
Karen sighed softly, “Never do that again! We thought you were in danger.”
Foggy nudged your shoulder with his. “You could’ve come out wearing a full Batman suit and told us you were secretly a duck, and I’d still show up at your door with takeout.”
Karen took your hand. “We love you. Not for what you give us. Not for the work you do. For you.”
Foggy chuckled to himself. “And even if Matt was a judgmental asshole-”
“I’m not,” Matt muttered.
“- I would still show up at your door,” Foggy finished. “And so would Karen.”
Karen nodded, gently wiping her eyes. “We all love you. You know that, right?”
You could only nod in response.
Outside, the rain finally began to subside, and the city exhaled a long-held breath. For the first time in a long time, you dared to think that you might survive too.
Later, when they’ve dried off and the food is reheated and Foggy is dramatically critiquing the terrible lighting in your kitchen, you catch Matt standing near the window, one hand lightly pressed to the wall.
“You’re not alone. Faith and identity- they don’t have to be enemies. Sometimes they’re just different ways of trying to survive, trying to find something true.” he says softly.
You hummed in agreement, for the first time in a long time, you think maybe both can be beautiful.
Matt steps even closer, his cane clicking decisively on the floor. “And for the record, truth isn’t measured by the hurt it causes. Something I will gladly say if your ‘parents’ dare to show their faces.”
hello!! I'd like to request a jessica jones x reader fic!!
if you're comfortable, can you write an enemies to lovers, banter-like with a non binary reader? I'd like for the non binary part to be an important part for this (like jessica showing she doesn't give a fuck and accepts reader as they are), but if not, female reader works just fine!
also, kinda like a sunshine (reader) x grumpy (jessica)
I have some prompts I'd love to see! you don't have to follow them, just to give u an idea for the concept I was going for!!
1. "You're insufferable."
"Yet you can't seem to stay away."
2. "You're impossible."
"And you're addicted to impossible things, apparently."
3."I don't even like you."
"Yeah? Then why were you staring at my mouth for the past ten minutes?"
anyways, I think you get it!! bantering and flirting and just this rivals vibe while jessica has a soft spot for reader :)
if you feel like turning it into smut, I'll leave it up to you! just keep in mind for afab body parts heh
my darling saturn, first of all thank you again for trusting me with this, it means a lot to me. I hope this is what you were looking for, and I hope I did it justice 🖤
warning: swearing
word count 1.4k
sunshine.
It had already been a shit morning. Jessica had forgotten to plug her phone charger into the outlet, which meant her alarm hadn’t gone off because her phone was dead, not that she would’ve gotten up to it anyway. To make matters worse, she had no coffee, or even a Red Bull to wash down the Advil and her hangover. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d bought groceries. It had been at least a week.
She could hear music coming from the apartment next door, the one across from Malcolm’s. It was something happy and upbeat, and it only soured her bad mood even further. Her other neighbor was sunshine personified, and Jessica was not a morning person. Muttering a curse under her breath, she stopped by her bedroom to swipe last night’s jeans off the floor, not bothering to slip on shoes or even brush her hair.
Jessica left her own door wide open as she took five steps down the hall, banging her first on the door labeled 5E.
A moment later, the door opened, and a familiar face stood in the doorway with a puzzled but amused expression. Jessica didn’t wait for a greeting, just got straight to the point.
“Got any coffee?”
Their lips spread into a grin as they leaned against the door frame, crossing their arms over their chest.
“Well, good morning to you too.”
Jessica rolled her eyes, pushing some of her messy hair away from her face with the back of her hand.
“It’s too early for pleasantries.”
“It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“Do you have any goddamn coffee or not?”
Instead of looking offended, their grin simply widened, and they shook their head with a chuckle as they pushed off the door frame, gesturing for Jessica to enter.
“Yes, grumpy. C’mon.”
No matter how much of a dick Jessica was, they never got irritated. They never looked offended. They were practically imperturbable. It was incredibly annoying to her.
Jessica made herself at home, sitting down at the dining room table, leaning back in the chair. She had a habit of that, making herself comfortable in other people’s spaces, even though she hated it when someone did it in hers. She glanced over at the phone on the counter that the music was coming from. The song had changed to another pop song, something about honey and kicking in doors and taking it to the floor. Jessica arched one of her dark brows.
“What is this?”
“Coffee.”
Jessica rolled her eyes and shot an exasperated look at the back of their head.
“I meant the music, smartass.”
“Taylor Swift.”
A crease of confusion settled between her brows, wrinkling her forehead.
“Taylor Swift sings about sex?”
A surprised laugh left their lips, setting the stirring spoon down on the counter before turning to walk over and set the mug down in front of Jessica.
“Jess, she’s thirty-six.”
Jessica pursed her lips, reaching for the warm mug. An aurora borealis was painted on the ceramic with vivid interwoven streaks of jade, violet, and indigo. Among the constellations that decorated the background, Jessica could see a little planet with telltale rings surrounding it. Saturn.
“I guess the last time I heard one of her songs, she was still a teenager.”
Taking a sip of the hot coffee, she caught herself taking another listen. As much as she hated to admit it, the song was catchy. It would definitely be stuck in her head later. She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Good for her.”
Her attention was suddenly drawn to the sight of them looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, their palm pressed against their chest through the baggy black shirt. It was the first time Jessica had ever seen anything but a smile or quiet amusement on their face. It was almost jarring.
“You having a heart attack, or something?”
They let out a laugh and shook their head, leaning back against the counter as they rubbed at the right side of their chest.
“Careful, you almost sound concerned.”
“I’m already having a shit morning, I really don’t want to spend the rest of it at a goddamn police station because you dropped dead.”
“Relax, it’s not a heart attack. It’s just…it’s not a big deal.”
Jessica narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. She set down the mug on the table, sitting up straighter.
“Bullshit.”
Letting out a sigh, they dropped their hand from their chest and looked over at her with a hesitance Jessica had never seen from them.
“It’s just my…tape.”
Jessica’s expression became muddled with perplexity as her eyes scanned over the top half of their body.
“Tape?”
“My binder tape.”
Jessica cocked her head to the side, looking at them in a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a um…like a bandage, like what you use to wrap gauze. It’s just a different version, some people call it trans tape. It’s safer on the skin, and helps…flatten things.”
Jessica had never really paid that much attention to their appearance. She was usually too wrapped up in her own shit to acknowledge anyone else’s, unless she was paid to do so. For the first time since her neighbor had moved in, she let her green eyes wander over their features, their clothes, and when she met their gaze, she saw the nerves there, and how still they were, almost like they were holding their breath.
“Well, do you need a hand with it?”
They blinked twice, clearly caught off guard by the offer. Their bewilderment quickly shifted into a gradient of apprehension that swirled into surprise.
“What?”
Jessica grabbed the mug and held it up before taking a large gulp of it.
“You gave me coffee, the neighborly thing to do would be return the favor. But unless you want three day old take out, this is the best I can do.”
When she stood up, she saw them straightening up by the counter, still looking equal parts anxious and confused.
“It doesn’t…bother you?”
Jessica’s dark brows furrowed at that question.
“What?”
“Me. Being non-binary.”
Jessica looked at them like they’d asked the stupidest question she’d ever heard.
“Why would that bother me?”
“Because it bothers a lot of people-”
Rolling her eyes, Jessica walked over and motioned with her finger for them to turn around.
“Yeah well, most people don’t know how to mind their goddamn business, and they’re miserable pieces of shit wanting everyone’s life to suck as much as theirs does.”
She heard the breathy laugh they let out, equal parts amused and relieved. It tugged at something in her chest she wasn’t sure she was capable of acknowledging.
“Alright, so is it too tight, too loose, what?”
They lifted their shirt just high enough for the tape to be visible, and Jessica could see where it was secured.
“A little too tight.”
Jessica’s fingers worked at giving it a bit of slack, holding it there without securing it.
“How’s that?”
“Better.”
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Once she was finished, Jessica walked over to sit back down, grabbing her mug of coffee to finish. They studied her curiously, like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. It made her roll her eyes as she shot them a pointed look.
“You know, I think I prefer you when you’re annoyingly sunshine and rainbows.”
That made them crack a smile, and they finally walked over to sit down across from her.
“I guess I’m just…surprised.”
Jessica let out a quiet snort.
“You shouldn’t be.”
Glancing down at the mug in her hand, Jessica’s demeanor shifted into something a little softer, and she let a tiny bit of vulnerability creep into her tone.
“I get it. People look at me and call me a freak. Some of them think my very existence is a threat. If they had it their way, I’d be locked in a cage somewhere. At least you got to choose what you are.”
“I guess I never thought about it like that. I mean, I thought everyone saw you as a hero. You do so much good-”
“Alright, let’s quit while we’re ahead and save our Hallmark moment.”
“Aww, a commercial break already?”
Jessica rolled her eyes, the edge of her lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement.
“You’re insufferable.”
Resting their chin in their palm, they looked over at her with a bright grin.
hello!! I'd like to request a jessica jones x reader fic!!
if you're comfortable, can you write an enemies to lovers, banter-like with a non binary reader? I'd like for the non binary part to be an important part for this (like jessica showing she doesn't give a fuck and accepts reader as they are), but if not, female reader works just fine!
also, kinda like a sunshine (reader) x grumpy (jessica)
I have some prompts I'd love to see! you don't have to follow them, just to give u an idea for the concept I was going for!!
1. "You're insufferable."
"Yet you can't seem to stay away."
2. "You're impossible."
"And you're addicted to impossible things, apparently."
3."I don't even like you."
"Yeah? Then why were you staring at my mouth for the past ten minutes?"
anyways, I think you get it!! bantering and flirting and just this rivals vibe while jessica has a soft spot for reader :)
if you feel like turning it into smut, I'll leave it up to you! just keep in mind for afab body parts heh
my darling saturn, first of all thank you again for trusting me with this, it means a lot to me. I hope this is what you were looking for, and I hope I did it justice 🖤
warning: swearing
word count 1.4k
sunshine.
It had already been a shit morning. Jessica had forgotten to plug her phone charger into the outlet, which meant her alarm hadn’t gone off because her phone was dead, not that she would’ve gotten up to it anyway. To make matters worse, she had no coffee, or even a Red Bull to wash down the Advil and her hangover. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d bought groceries. It had been at least a week.
She could hear music coming from the apartment next door, the one across from Malcolm’s. It was something happy and upbeat, and it only soured her bad mood even further. Her other neighbor was sunshine personified, and Jessica was not a morning person. Muttering a curse under her breath, she stopped by her bedroom to swipe last night’s jeans off the floor, not bothering to slip on shoes or even brush her hair.
Jessica left her own door wide open as she took five steps down the hall, banging her first on the door labeled 5E.
A moment later, the door opened, and a familiar face stood in the doorway with a puzzled but amused expression. Jessica didn’t wait for a greeting, just got straight to the point.
“Got any coffee?”
Their lips spread into a grin as they leaned against the door frame, crossing their arms over their chest.
“Well, good morning to you too.”
Jessica rolled her eyes, pushing some of her messy hair away from her face with the back of her hand.
“It’s too early for pleasantries.”
“It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“Do you have any goddamn coffee or not?”
Instead of looking offended, their grin simply widened, and they shook their head with a chuckle as they pushed off the door frame, gesturing for Jessica to enter.
“Yes, grumpy. C’mon.”
No matter how much of a dick Jessica was, they never got irritated. They never looked offended. They were practically imperturbable. It was incredibly annoying to her.
Jessica made herself at home, sitting down at the dining room table, leaning back in the chair. She had a habit of that, making herself comfortable in other people’s spaces, even though she hated it when someone did it in hers. She glanced over at the phone on the counter that the music was coming from. The song had changed to another pop song, something about honey and kicking in doors and taking it to the floor. Jessica arched one of her dark brows.
“What is this?”
“Coffee.”
Jessica rolled her eyes and shot an exasperated look at the back of their head.
“I meant the music, smartass.”
“Taylor Swift.”
A crease of confusion settled between her brows, wrinkling her forehead.
“Taylor Swift sings about sex?”
A surprised laugh left their lips, setting the stirring spoon down on the counter before turning to walk over and set the mug down in front of Jessica.
“Jess, she’s thirty-six.”
Jessica pursed her lips, reaching for the warm mug. An aurora borealis was painted on the ceramic with vivid interwoven streaks of jade, violet, and indigo. Among the constellations that decorated the background, Jessica could see a little planet with telltale rings surrounding it. Saturn.
“I guess the last time I heard one of her songs, she was still a teenager.”
Taking a sip of the hot coffee, she caught herself taking another listen. As much as she hated to admit it, the song was catchy. It would definitely be stuck in her head later. She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Good for her.”
Her attention was suddenly drawn to the sight of them looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable, their palm pressed against their chest through the baggy black shirt. It was the first time Jessica had ever seen anything but a smile or quiet amusement on their face. It was almost jarring.
“You having a heart attack, or something?”
They let out a laugh and shook their head, leaning back against the counter as they rubbed at the right side of their chest.
“Careful, you almost sound concerned.”
“I’m already having a shit morning, I really don’t want to spend the rest of it at a goddamn police station because you dropped dead.”
“Relax, it’s not a heart attack. It’s just…it’s not a big deal.”
Jessica narrowed her eyes, unconvinced. She set down the mug on the table, sitting up straighter.
“Bullshit.”
Letting out a sigh, they dropped their hand from their chest and looked over at her with a hesitance Jessica had never seen from them.
“It’s just my…tape.”
Jessica’s expression became muddled with perplexity as her eyes scanned over the top half of their body.
“Tape?”
“My binder tape.”
Jessica cocked her head to the side, looking at them in a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.
“What’s that?”
“It’s like a um…like a bandage, like what you use to wrap gauze. It’s just a different version, some people call it trans tape. It’s safer on the skin, and helps…flatten things.”
Jessica had never really paid that much attention to their appearance. She was usually too wrapped up in her own shit to acknowledge anyone else’s, unless she was paid to do so. For the first time since her neighbor had moved in, she let her green eyes wander over their features, their clothes, and when she met their gaze, she saw the nerves there, and how still they were, almost like they were holding their breath.
“Well, do you need a hand with it?”
They blinked twice, clearly caught off guard by the offer. Their bewilderment quickly shifted into a gradient of apprehension that swirled into surprise.
“What?”
Jessica grabbed the mug and held it up before taking a large gulp of it.
“You gave me coffee, the neighborly thing to do would be return the favor. But unless you want three day old take out, this is the best I can do.”
When she stood up, she saw them straightening up by the counter, still looking equal parts anxious and confused.
“It doesn’t…bother you?”
Jessica’s dark brows furrowed at that question.
“What?”
“Me. Being non-binary.”
Jessica looked at them like they’d asked the stupidest question she’d ever heard.
“Why would that bother me?”
“Because it bothers a lot of people-”
Rolling her eyes, Jessica walked over and motioned with her finger for them to turn around.
“Yeah well, most people don’t know how to mind their goddamn business, and they’re miserable pieces of shit wanting everyone’s life to suck as much as theirs does.”
She heard the breathy laugh they let out, equal parts amused and relieved. It tugged at something in her chest she wasn’t sure she was capable of acknowledging.
“Alright, so is it too tight, too loose, what?”
They lifted their shirt just high enough for the tape to be visible, and Jessica could see where it was secured.
“A little too tight.”
Jessica’s fingers worked at giving it a bit of slack, holding it there without securing it.
“How’s that?”
“Better.”
“Don’t say I never did anything for you.”
Once she was finished, Jessica walked over to sit back down, grabbing her mug of coffee to finish. They studied her curiously, like they were waiting for the other shoe to drop. It made her roll her eyes as she shot them a pointed look.
“You know, I think I prefer you when you’re annoyingly sunshine and rainbows.”
That made them crack a smile, and they finally walked over to sit down across from her.
“I guess I’m just…surprised.”
Jessica let out a quiet snort.
“You shouldn’t be.”
Glancing down at the mug in her hand, Jessica’s demeanor shifted into something a little softer, and she let a tiny bit of vulnerability creep into her tone.
“I get it. People look at me and call me a freak. Some of them think my very existence is a threat. If they had it their way, I’d be locked in a cage somewhere. At least you got to choose what you are.”
“I guess I never thought about it like that. I mean, I thought everyone saw you as a hero. You do so much good-”
“Alright, let’s quit while we’re ahead and save our Hallmark moment.”
“Aww, a commercial break already?”
Jessica rolled her eyes, the edge of her lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement.
“You’re insufferable.”
Resting their chin in their palm, they looked over at her with a bright grin.
guys anyone PLEASEEEE write for amber glenn im begging you guys, she needs more fic written about her shes so hot. im desperate for some PLEASEEEE, if not i might as well write my own 🫠
Regina’s on her back, one leg bent, scrolling lazily through her phone, freshly manicured nails clacking against the screen. Her blonde hair’s a little messy from your fingers, and her gloss is smudged just slightly—but she still looks like she just walked off a Vogue cover.
You’re curled beside her, cheek on her stomach, just watching her. In complete silence. Eyes full of nothing but awe.
After like a full minute of you just staring, she sighs, not looking up.
“God, you’re obsessed with me.”
You grin. “Yeah. I am.”
She pauses, then glances down at you with a squint. “You’re not even denying it?”
“Nope.” You kiss the skin just above her bellybutton. “I’m totally, tragically, obsessively in love with you. You’re perfect.”
Regina rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. She tosses her phone aside and stares down at you, lips twitching.
“You’re insane.”
“Insanely into you, yeah.”
She pretends to scoff, but you can tell she’s soaking it up—her eyes go soft, her fingers find your hair, and she tugs you closer like she’s the one who can’t get enough.
“Keep talking,” she murmurs, feigning boredom. “If you’re gonna worship me, do it right.”
You smirk, propping yourself up just enough to press a kiss to her ribs, then another to her hip. “You’re the hottest girl in the entire universe. Your hair’s perfect, your body’s illegal, and your attitude? God-tier. You’re terrifying and sexy and I’d let you ruin my life any day.”
She exhales sharply, almost a laugh, and cups your face suddenly, tilting it up.
“You already let me ruin it,” she whispers with a grin, “and you’re still begging for more.”
——
Regina’s pacing.
Not dramatically—she’d never be that uncool—but her bare feet are gliding across her bedroom carpet, lip gloss perfectly reapplied even though no one’s here yet. Her phone’s on the bed, unread texts from Karen and Gretchen glowing uselessly. She keeps glancing at the time.
You’re five minutes late.
Whatever.
She folds her arms, stares out her window, and scoffs to herself.
She’s literally in love with me. Like—actual, textbook obsessed. I told her to shut up yesterday and she smiled. Who does that?
She walks to her mirror, checks herself again, then frowns.
I’m not even nice to her. I don’t try. I make fun of her shoes, I insult her in public, and she just… takes it. Worse—she likes it. And now we’re dating? Like officially? As if that means anything. As if I’m gonna suddenly start being sweet and soft and hold her hand under the table or whatever? No. I don’t do that. She should know that.
She glares at herself. Her reflection just smirks back.
She should be running. Screaming. Getting a restraining order or something. But no. She keeps showing up. With snacks. And compliments.
And her stupid, glowy, heart-eyes face every time I so much as breathe near her.
There’s a knock at the door.
Regina turns, rolls her eyes, flips her hair over her shoulder like it didn’t just take her fifteen tries to get it that perfect.
She opens the door.
And there you are.
Smiling up at her like a puppy that learned how to love a wolf. Soft sweatshirt, hands in your pockets, eyes practically sparkling at the sight of her.
She doesn’t even give you time to speak.
“Genuinely,” she says flatly, “you’re fucking crazy.”
Your smile gets even bigger.
“I know,” you say cheerfully, stepping into her room like you belong there, like her meanness doesn’t even register. You plop down on her bed, cozy and relaxed, like she didn’t just call you insane. “But you like it.”
She stares at you.
You beam.
Regina shuts the door behind you with a dramatic little sigh, walks over, and crawls onto the bed like a lion cornering prey.
“You’re literally out of your mind.”
You’re already leaning into her. “Mhm.”
“You’re obsessed with me.”
“Obviously.”
Her fingers curl under your chin, forcing your gaze up to hers. “You’re mine, you know that?”
You nod, so soft, so pliant it almost hurts. “Completely.”
She groans under her breath and kisses you like she’s punishing you for being this easy to own.
Her lips are warm and glossy and kind of unfair—like every kiss is a flex. You tilt your head, matching her rhythm, letting her lead, letting her take. And she does—mouth pressing deeper into yours, fingers slipping into your hair like she owns it, like she owns you.
And just as it starts getting heated—
You giggle.
Right against her lips.
Not on purpose. It just bubbles out—tiny, breathy, bright—as she pulls you closer. You’re just so happy. And flustered. And totally high off her lipgloss and attention.
She flinches back immediately with the most offended expression known to mankind.
“Did you just giggle?” she asks, staring at you like you committed a war crime. “While I was kissing you?”
You bite your lip, trying not to laugh again. “…Maybe?”
Her face is somewhere between scandalized and disgusted. “Oh my god. You’re ruining it. I was literally having a moment.”
“I’m sorry!” you say quickly, still grinning like an idiot. “Let me fix it.”
Before she can throw more sass, you lean up and start kissing her lips in quick little pecks. One. Then another. Then another. Soft and rapid and borderline ridiculous.
Peck.
Peck.
Peck.
She glares at you through it, totally still, letting you do it—but with her arms crossed now and a very done energy.
“Stop it,” she says flatly, even as you kiss her again. “That’s not how you fix it.”
Peck.
Peck.
Peck.
“Oh my god, stop it, you’re making it worse.”
Peck.
But her mouth twitches. Just barely.
You pause, hovering close. “Better?”
She exhales dramatically, finally unfolding her arms and grabbing your face in both hands.
“So much worse,” she says, then kisses you again—this time harder, longer, lips parting like she’s reclaiming the moment. Like if anyone’s going to ruin a kiss around here, it’s her.
—
She’s lying on her stomach now, cheek against your chest, scrolling through her phone again with one hand—totally silent except for the occasional soft tch when she sees something dumb on Instagram.
Your other hand is in her hair. Not even consciously. You’re just absentmindedly threading your fingers through it, slow and lazy, twirling strands around your pinky, combing them out again. Every once in a while, you scratch lightly at her scalp—and you feel her melt just a little deeper into you.
“You’re like… obsessed with my hair,” she mumbles without looking up.
“Mhm.”
“You’re not even denying it anymore.”
“Nope.”
Another pause. She pretends to scroll, but you can feel how still she’s gone. You tug her hair gently back from her face and she lets you.
Then, after a beat:
“You better not be doing this to anyone else.”
You snort. “Regina, I would never play with someone else’s hair. Are you kidding? That’s, like, sacred.”
“Good,” she mutters. Still not looking at you. “I’d kill them. And you. But mostly them.”
You grin, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Noted.”
And then silence again. Just the soft rhythm of your breathing, your fingers looping through her golden hair, her body pressed against yours like you’re the only safe place in the world.
She stays like that. Doesn’t move.
She’ll claim she fell asleep like that later. But you’ll both know the truth.
——
Gretchen’s talking about some junior who copied her hairstyle. Karen’s eating her lunch like she forgot how forks work. And Regina’s lounging in the center, obviously, picking at her salad like it personally offended her.
You’re sitting next to her, tray untouched, elbow gently nudging hers. You haven’t said much. You never really do around the others—you’re more of a lean-into-Regina’s-shoulder-and-smile-at-her-like-she-hung-the-moon kind of girlfriend.
Which is exactly what you’re doing right now.
She catches you looking and raises a single eyebrow. “What.”
You tilt your head a little, voice soft. “You’re really pretty.”
Gretchen pauses. Karen blinks. The table goes quiet for a second.
Regina doesn’t even flinch.
“I know,” she says flatly, like she’s bored. She pops a grape into her mouth and keeps scrolling through her phone like you didn’t just drop a heart-eyed compliment out of nowhere.
You just smile at her.
Like big, soft, sparkly smile. Like you meant it in the most sincere, absolutely unhinged, fully-in-love way possible. No sarcasm. No angle. Just: she’s pretty, and you’re lucky, and the sun is warm when she’s near.
Regina side-eyes you slowly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” you ask, still smiling.
“Like I’m a puppy and you’re about to cry from happiness.”
You giggle, leaning your head on her shoulder. “I’m just happy.”
Karen blinks again. “You guys are like, so in love. It’s kinda weird but also cute.”
Regina shoots her a look. “No one asked.”
But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t tell you to get off. Doesn’t roll her eyes. She just lets you rest there, soft and content, like she’s gotten used to having something so warm and easy and pliant curled up beside her.
And when no one’s looking, she reaches under the table and slips her hand into yours.
No words. No smile. Just fingers laced, hidden, held.
You’re still curled into Regina’s side at the Plastics’ table, your sad little sandwich untouched on your tray like it’s already given up on life.
Meanwhile, her salad is glowing. Expensive. Perfect. Untouched grapes sparkling in the light like forbidden treasure.
You blink up at her.
“Baby…”
Regina doesn’t look up from her phone. “What.”
You nudge her lightly with your elbow. “Can I have one of your grapes?”
That gets her attention. She turns her head slowly, eyebrow already raised. “Are you serious.”
You nod. “I forgot to pack anything else, and you’re not even eating them…”
“Because I’m saving them. For the end. Like a normal person with priorities.”
You lean in a little closer, flutter your lashes, full dramatic performance.
“Please?” you say softly. “Just one? I’ll be so good.”
Regina stares at you like she’s never seen something so pathetic in her life. “Oh my god. You’re flirting for a grape.”
Karen leans in like this is a movie. “I’d give you a grape.”
When Regina snaps her head to look directly into Karen’s eyes and glare at her, she hides away behind a spoonful of her own lunch.
Gretchen ignores all of you, chewing like this happens every day.
Regina turns back to look at you. She’s holding back a smirk now. You can see it. She’s pretending to be annoyed but there’s this glint in her eye like she’s seconds away from feeding you grapes and calling you ridiculous.
You press your cheek to her shoulder. “I’ll trade you my sandwich for just one.”
She looks at the sandwich. Grimaces. “That’s not a trade, that’s an insult.”
You blink up at her again. Big eyes. Innocent smile.
She stares at you.
Stares at you some more.
Then sighs like she’s carrying the emotional weight of this entire relationship.
Without saying anything, she picks up a grape between her fingers and holds it just in front of your lips.
You light up. “Thank you!”
She doesn’t move the grape. Just raises one perfect eyebrow. “Say it cuter.”
You blink. “Cuter?”
She tilts her head. “Mhm.”
You try again, voice higher, almost a whisper: “Pretty please?”
She looks unimpressed.
You pout. Full pout. Eyes wide, lips soft, leaning in like she’s the only person on Earth who’s ever fed you.
Finally—finally—she sighs and lets you take it from her fingers. You do, happily, lips brushing her knuckles, chewing with the most satisfied little hum.
Regina rolls her eyes.
“You’re a menace.”
You smile sweetly. “Your menace.”
And she doesn’t deny it.
——
You’re walking alone, hugging your books to your chest. Light steps. Mind on nothing. Just hoping to make it to your locker in peace.
But then some random senior guy—loud, way too confident, clearly not catching a single cue—corners you halfway there. Leans a little too close, one hand braced on the locker beside your head like he thinks this is a rom-com.
“Hey,” he grins. “You’re Regina’s girl, right?”
You blink, already uncomfortable. “Um… yeah?”
“That’s hot. I mean, you don’t act like her. You’re, like, way softer. Nicer. Kinda cute.”
You laugh, awkward and tight. “That’s really… nice of you to say?”
You try to slide past him—politely, of course—but he moves with you, blocking your way again.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, clearly not done, “you deserve someone who actually treats you right, you know? Someone who’s not, like, terrifying.”
You clutch your books tighter. Like they might shield you from whatever this is.
“I’m… actually really happy,” you say gently, trying to keep your tone light. “And Regina’s not—well, she’s… she’s a lot, but I like her. So…”
You look up, hoping he gets the hint.
He doesn’t.
“C’mon,” he says, “you’re too sweet to be stuck with someone like her.”
You open your mouth to respond—one last polite decline—but you don’t get the chance.
Because that’s the exact moment Regina George’s voice slices through the hallway like a knife dipped in honey:
“Excuse me?”
You both turn. And there she is.
Walking toward you with slow, terrifying purpose, heels clicking, ponytail bouncing, eyes sharp and locked on the guy like she’s already planning his funeral outfit.
He tries to smirk. “Hey, Regina—”
“Step. Away. From her.”
There’s something about her tone. About the way she doesn’t even raise her voice, but the threat laces through every syllable like poison.
The guy steps back instantly, hands up, trying to laugh it off. “Jeez, relax—”
Regina cuts him a look that could level a building.
“Don’t speak,” she says calmly. “Just walk away while you still have knees.”
He blinks. Then walks.
Quickly.
She turns to you, eyes softening only slightly.
“You okay?”
You nod quickly, smiling up at her like she literally just descended from heaven in Prada. “My hero.”
She rolls her eyes, clearly trying not to smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
You beam. “And you love me.”
“Unfortunately.”
But then she slips her arm around your waist and pulls you close, kissing the top of your head before leading you away like nothing ever happened—like of course she protects her girl. Of course no one else gets to touch you. You’re hers.
Regina walks you down the hallway with her arm still around you, totally unbothered, like she didn’t just threaten someone’s entire bloodline three seconds ago.
You glance up at her, still glowing. “Seriously though. That was so hot.”
She groans. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You saved me,” you whisper dramatically, like it’s a fairytale. “From the big bad locker bro.”
“You’re embarrassing.”
You smile. “But pretty.”
She side-eyes you. “Stop.”
“Pretty and powerful.”
“Stop.”
“Pretty, powerful, and mean.”
“I swear to god, if you don’t shut up—”
You giggle, leaning into her side. “You love me.”
She pauses. Looks at you. Real slow.
Then?
She kisses you. Just once. Soft and quick and right in the middle of the hallway.
You blink, stunned. “What was that for?”
Regina shrugs. “Felt like it.”
And that’s it.
She keeps walking like she didn’t just casually destroy your soul with a forehead kiss, and you follow her, still clutching your books, still her soft little shadow.
No one says anything.
Because Regina George doesn’t need to say she loves you.
She just makes sure everyone else knows you’re hers.
You’re halfway through your sad little sandwich when a perfectly manicured hand drops a pink smoothie in front of you.
“I got you something,” Regina says, like it’s a favor, not a kindness. She sits down across from you without asking, adjusting her sunglasses even though you’re indoors.
You blink. “…Why?”
She tilts her head, fake-pouting. “Wow. Rude. I do one generous thing and you get suspicious?”
You pick up the smoothie cautiously. “No, I just—didn’t know I was on your gift list.”
She rolls her eyes. “Relax. You were staring at mine yesterday like a sad little orphan. It was giving thirst.”
You blink again. “So you got me one?”
Regina shrugs. “Well, I couldn’t have you embarrassing yourself drooling over my straw again.”
But then she stabs a piece of her salad without looking at it, like she’s suddenly too focused on nothing in particular. You sip the smoothie, trying to hide your smile.
It’s your favorite flavor.
You look at her, and she’s already looking at you—eyes flicking away the second you meet them.
You lean in just slightly. “So… you were paying attention.”
She huffs. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just painfully predictable.”
A beat.
Then, quieter:
“But I guess that’s kind of cute or whatever.”
****
Hallway, Friday, 10:08 AM – Between Classes
Your locker sticks. It always sticks. You’re tugging on it like you’re in a full-body wrestling match when suddenly, a perfectly manicured hand reaches past your shoulder and pops it open with one effortless twist.
You don’t even have to look. You already know.
“Seriously?” you mutter.
Regina leans against the locker next to yours like it’s a throne. “God, you’re hopeless. What would you do without me?”
You glance at her. She looks unfairly good. Hair perfect. Lip gloss immaculate. Wearing a cardigan that’s technically not allowed under the dress code but no one dares say anything.
You close your locker slowly. “Probably die tragically. Or just be late for third period.”
She hums, watching you. “You’d miss me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Miss the girl who mocks me in homeroom and told me my backpack looks ‘like it’s from a Netflix original set in Iowa’?”
Regina smirks. “It does. But you still wear it. Because deep down, you love when I pay attention to you.”
You open your mouth to argue, but she steps forward. Just a little closer. Close enough for her perfume to kiss your skin. Her finger gently tugs the collar of your shirt back into place, brushing your collarbone on purpose.
“Poor thing,” she murmurs, lips tugging into a smirk. “Completely obsessed with me.”
Your breath catches—because she’s not wrong.
But you find your footing.
“I’m not obsessed,” you say, steady but soft. “I just like watching you pretend you’re not obsessed with me.”
She blinks, like that short-circuits something in her brain, but she recovers fast. A slow, wicked grin spreads across her face.
“Oooh,” she purrs. “So you think you’re bold now?”
You shrug. “Just paying attention. Like someone taught me.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back. Just stares at you, lips parted slightly, as if she’s debating whether to kiss you or shove you into your locker and never admit she cares.
The bell rings. You don’t move.
Finally, she clicks her tongue and walks away, but over her shoulder she calls, “Try not to think about me too much in class.”
And you know she’s smiling when she says it.
****
Morning, 7:41 AM – School Courtyard
Regina’s barely sat down at the bench when a familiar coffee cup is placed gently in front of her.
Her hand hovers over it for a second before she glances up at you, standing there with your hands in your pockets, looking way too casual for someone who just remembered her exact oat milk-to-espresso ratio.
“…What is this?” she asks flatly.
You shrug. “You mentioned needing caffeine this morning. Thought I’d help out.”
She stares at the cup like it might explode. “I said that on a private story.”
You smile. “Yeah. And?”
She blinks once. Slowly. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re welcome.”
She scoffs, picks up the cup, and takes a sip. She tries—tries—to look unimpressed, but her eyelids flutter for a millisecond too long. You notice.
You sit beside her, pulling a little plastic container from your bag and sliding it toward her. Inside: a perfectly sliced green apple.
She glares at it. “Are you serious.”
You tilt your head, grin. “Something about you gives me ‘sour but expensive’ energy.”
She stares at the apple. Then you. Then back at the apple.
“…You’re trying to seduce me.”
You laugh. “With fruit? Sure. Why not.”
She doesn’t respond, just picks up a slice and bites it like it owes her something.
You glance sideways at her. “I know you don’t let people do things for you. I know you’re used to being the one who gets chased.”
She freezes for a second, then forces a smirk. “Wow. Deep talk over produce?”
You keep your voice soft. “I’m not chasing you. I’m choosing you.”
She looks at you—actually looks—and for a moment, the sharp edges drop. Just barely. But you see it. That tiny flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes.
“…You’re ridiculous,” she mutters.
But she takes another bite. And another sip. And she doesn’t walk away.
As you sit next to Regina, you watch her carefully polish off the apple slices one by one. She doesn’t speak again, just chews with calculated silence like she’s processing a spreadsheet of emotions in her head.
You glance at her hoodie sleeve—slightly frayed at the cuff.
Without thinking, you reach out and gently fold it up for her, thumb brushing her wrist. Soft. Careful. Like she’ll bite if you press too hard.
Regina stares at your hand.
“You’re really doing the most,” she mutters, voice unusually quiet.
You shrug. “It’s not hard to do the most when it’s for you.”
She blinks. Looks away. Drinks more coffee like it might drown the flush rising on her cheeks. But you swear—swear—she shifts just slightly closer.
****
4th Period, 11:19 AM – Art Class
It’s quiet, save for the scratch of pencils and the occasional sigh of a bored sophomore.
You’re sketching. Or, at least, pretending to. Truthfully, you’re half-watching Regina a few seats away. She hasn’t looked your way once.
Then out of nowhere—
“Could you not stare at me like some pathetic little lovesick pigeon?”
You freeze.
The table goes awkwardly still.
Regina glares at you like you personally ruined her day. “God. It’s like you’re trying to get kicked in the face with how obvious you are.”
You blink. Twice. Your heart jumps into your throat, but your voice stays calm.
“…Sorry.”
That only makes her more irritated. “You should be. Maybe get a hobby that isn’t me?”
She turns back to her sketchbook like she didn’t just gut you with her bare hands.
And you—sweet, stupid, worshipful you—just sit there. Quiet. Breathing slowly through the sting.
Because something’s off.
This isn’t her usual teasing.
This feels more like: I’m scared and I’m pushing you away before you see too much of me.
You stay exactly where you are.
Eyes back on your sketch. Hands still. Shoulders calm. You don’t flinch or snap or retreat like she clearly wanted you to.
You just breathe.
And then, with the softest touch—barely even looking up—you tear a scrap of paper from the edge of your page and write a few quick words.
You fold it once and slide it across the table toward her without saying a thing.
Regina doesn’t even look at it at first.
But you see the tension in her jaw shift, just a little.
Eventually—carefully—she pulls it over with one finger and opens it.
“You don’t scare me.
And I’m not going anywhere.”
She stares at the note like it’s in a language she’s never read before. Like it burns a little. And for a long, long moment, she doesn’t say a word.
You don’t press.
You go back to sketching.
You let her sit in the silence she created—
with the warmth you left behind.
And it hits her.
Harder than she thought it would.
****
Friday, 3:47 PM – After School
Regina’s in her car, parked in front of her house, music playing low enough to not disturb the chaos in her head. One hand’s on the steering wheel. The other’s still gripping that crumpled little note you gave her in fourth period.
“You don’t scare me.
And I’m not going anywhere.”
Except now you’re quiet.
You didn’t wait for her after sixth period like you sometimes do.
You didn’t reply to her last text—something dumb about someone’s outfit in the hallway.
You were just… polite. Neutral. Like she hadn’t thrown emotional daggers at your face and watched you sit in the fire with love still in your eyes.
And it’s driving her insane.
She opens your text thread and types:
what, are you mad?
Backspace.
you’re acting weird.
Backspace.
don’t be a baby, i was joking.
Backspace. Backspace. Backspace.
She throws her phone into the passenger seat and groans out loud, dragging a hand through her hair.
She doesn’t do this. She doesn’t overthink. She doesn’t care if someone pulls away—they’re supposed to chase her. That’s how it works.
But she keeps seeing your face from earlier. The way you didn’t crumble. The way you didn’t fight. The way you just existed with this unshakable calm that made her feel seen and naked and unworthy all at once.
****
Monday, 8:12 AM – Hallway, Just Before First Bell
You’re standing by your locker, headphones in, quietly minding your business—until your phone is snatched out of your hand.
You barely get a breath in before Regina’s in front of you, holding it like she’s doing you a favor.
“Wow. Ignoring me and listening to sad girl music? What is this, your tragic era?”
You blink. “Give that back.”
Regina raises an eyebrow. “A please would be nice.”
You narrow your eyes. “Regina.”
She stares at you for a long moment. Then slowly—painfully slowly—she hands it back, but her fingers linger on yours just a beat too long.
“You’ve been weird lately,” she says, like it’s your fault she detonated a whole classroom moment on your face and expected it to blow over.
“I’ve been normal,” you reply, voice even.
Regina smiles, sharp and shiny. “Right. Just normally clingy, normally obsessed.”
You breathe in through your nose. Calm. Still.
But then her voice drops, quieter. Closer.
“You think I don’t notice? You didn’t wait for me after gym. You didn’t like my post. You didn’t even look at me when I walked in.”
You stare at her. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”
She scoffs. “Don’t twist this. I never said stop acting like you care.”
Your throat tightens, but you hold it in. You don’t flinch. You just watch her like you’re seeing her unravel one thread at a time.
“Why do you care so much if I pull away, Regina?” you ask, voice quiet. Honest.
She tilts her head, lips curling into something cruel. “Because watching you drool over me is my favorite part of the day.”
That stings. It’s meant to. But behind her eyes—there’s panic.
Because she’s losing control.
And she knows it.
And you? You don’t bite back. You just nod, slow, almost like you’re studying her.
Then you walk away.
Not fast. Not dramatic. Just calm. Soft. Measured.
Like you’re the one holding the leash now.
****
Same Day, 12:36 PM – Cafeteria
You get to the table early. Quietly. Without a word, you set down a tray for Regina.
Her smoothie—straw hole already pierced, lid wiped clean.
A napkin folded neatly beside it.
Her favorite snack in the corner compartment.
And her seat left perfectly empty.
You sit two chairs away. Just far enough to not presume closeness, but close enough to be near if she needs something.
Regina arrives a few minutes later, not even looking at you. She drops her bag onto the bench and sits down like a queen settling into her throne.
Her eyes flick to the tray.
“…You remembered.”
You nod. Not smiling. Just… waiting. Like a dog that knows better than to ask for attention but stays by the door anyway.
She sips the smoothie without another word. You glance once, just to make sure everything’s right. Her glossed lips leave a faint kiss on the straw, and you have to look back down at your lap to stop your cheeks from going warm.
She takes another sip. Then slowly turns toward you.
“You’ve been awfully quiet lately,” she says. Not accusing. Just curious. Like she’s poking at your ribs to watch you react.
You look up, meet her gaze only for a moment. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
Regina tilts her head, studying you. “You think I’m that fragile?”
“No,” you whisper. “I think I’m just… small.”
Her jaw tightens. Like something about that goes straight to the part of her brain that’s starving.
You reach out, slowly, and slide the corner of your own apple slice onto her tray. It’s not an offering. It’s a habit. Like breathing. Like prayer.
She picks it up, takes a bite, chews in silence.
And you? You just sit there. Waiting. Ready.
Whatever she says, whatever she wants—you’ll be here.
Because she has your attention.
And your loyalty.
And the softest, smallest part of you.
****
10:42 AM – Hallway, Between Third and Fourth Period
You’re walking half a step behind Regina. Like always.
You’re holding her iced coffee, her lip gloss, and her folder—because she asked. Or rather, she looked at you like you’d be useless otherwise.
And right now?
She’s tearing into you.
“God, can you walk any slower? My grandma has better pacing and she’s literally dead.”
You nod slightly. “Sorry.”
She doesn’t look at you. Just keeps walking, hair bouncing perfectly with every sharp little step.
“And I swear, if you forget to put my notes in order again like yesterday, I’m going to make you write them out by hand. In glitter pen. Like a loser.”
You nod again. “Yes, Regina.”
“God, you’re pathetic,” she mutters, just loud enough for a passing student to hear. “It’s embarrassing how eager you are.”
And it hurts, of course it hurts. But you say nothing.
Because this is what you’ve been trained into.
And there’s a strange safety in her cruelty—because even when she’s mean, she sees you.
You follow her all the way to class. She doesn’t thank you. She just takes her things out of your arms and glides through the door like you don’t exist.
****
2:11 PM – Side Courtyard, Behind the Cafeteria
You’re sitting alone. Regina’s off somewhere—meeting with the yearbook committee or terrorizing someone in debate. You didn’t ask.
And that’s when it happens.
Two girls from the junior class—both rich, both nasty, both convinced they run shit—strut over with the kind of confidence you know doesn’t come from reality.
“Oh, my god,” one of them giggles. “Are you waiting for your girlfriend to come tie your shoes for you or something?”
The other one scoffs. “No, she’s probably just programmed to sit still until Regina snaps her fingers.”
You don’t say anything. Just keep your eyes down.
But they’re not done.
“Do you even have a backbone? Or did Regina pluck it out with her acrylics?”
You swallow. Stay small. Stay still.
Then:
Heels.
Clicking.
Fast.
And then a voice—sharp as a blade dipped in gloss.
“Wow. You two must be really confident to be talking that much shit with those faces.”
Silence.
Then, confusion.
You look up.
Regina.
Hair pulled back. Sunglasses off. Lip gloss dangerous. And her eyes? Unforgiving.
One of the girls tries to smile. “Regina—hey. We were just—”
“No, you weren’t,” Regina snaps. “You were trying to come for someone you couldn’t even stand next to in a mirror without cracking it.”
The second girl opens her mouth. Regina cuts her off.
“Do you think I let anyone touch what’s mine?”
The courtyard goes dead silent.
You freeze. Heart thudding. You stare at her.
She’s not looking at you.
But she’s standing in front of you.
Shielding you.
Like a hurricane in high heels.
“Talk to her again,” Regina says, voice calm and deadly. “And I’ll make sure you’re on social probation so long, colleges will pretend you never existed.”
She turns on her heel. Doesn’t wait for a thank you. Doesn’t look back.
But she says, almost casually, like it’s an afterthought:
“Come on. Let’s go.”
And you rise without thinking.
Without questioning.
****
4:12 PM – Student Parking Lot, After School
You’re standing by the back of Regina’s car, waiting like usual. She’s taking her sweet time—texting, adjusting her hair, checking her lip gloss in the reflection of her tinted window.
When she finally turns to you, she’s chewing gum and squinting at the sky like she’s already annoyed with the weather.
“Hold my bag,” she says, tossing it to you before you can even nod.
You catch it. Instinctively. Without thinking.
“Actually—open the door for me.”
You do. Quietly. Like always.
She climbs in with a huff, legs crossing, sunglasses sliding back down into place. She doesn’t say thank you. She never does.
You slip into the passenger seat, still holding her bag in your lap like it’s sacred.
And for a while, it’s silent. Just the hum of the engine, the sound of her scrolling, your quiet breathing.
Then, all at once—
“Why the fuck do you do that?”
You blink. “Do what?”
Regina doesn’t look at you. Her fingers are still on her phone, but her eyes are on nothing.
“All of it. The… the carrying shit. The waiting. The way you just… listen when I’m being a bitch.”
You stare at her. And when you speak, it’s soft. Honest. “Because I like you.”
Her jaw tenses. “That’s not a good reason.”
“It is to me.”
She throws her phone down onto the console, finally turning to look at you.
“You’re not even dating me,” she snaps, like that’s the part that bothers her most. “You just… let me treat you like you’re mine.”
You tilt your head. “I thought I was.”
That hits her like a slap.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Then breathes in sharply like she’s about to argue—
But instead?
She crumbles.
“Fine,” she mutters, eyes rolling so hard they nearly fall out of her head. “Whatever. Fuck it. You’re my girlfriend now.”
Your breath catches.
“I’ll be nice to you. Or whatever.” Her voice is sour, but her ears are so red. “Not all the time, obviously. But like… enough.”
You blink, stunned. “Are you serious?”
She glares at you. “Do I look like I joke about this shit?”
“No,” you whisper, a little dazed.
She exhales. Loud. Dramatic. Leans her head back against the seat like loving you is exhausting.
Then, after a pause—barely audible:
“…But if you ever stop listening to me like that, I’ll kill you.”
And you smile.
Because she means it.
Because she’s yours.
And she has no idea how soft she’s about to become.
****
4:37 PM – Regina’s Bedroom
The door shuts behind you with a soft click. Regina tosses her bag to the side like it personally offended her and collapses onto her bed, dramatically facedown.
You stand near the door for a second, biting your lip, smiling way too much for someone who just got insulted into a relationship.
“Okay,” you say casually, walking over. “But like…”
Regina groans into the pillow. “Don’t start.”
“No, seriously,” you grin, crawling onto the bed beside her. “I think I blacked out like a little bit in the car. Could you just… say it again?”
She lifts her head, face twisted. “Say what?”
You blink at her innocently. “You know. The part where you said I’m your girlfriend now?”
Regina narrows her eyes like she’s trying to physically kill the air between you. “I did not say it like that.”
You nod, full of fake sympathy. “No, yeah. You were really romantic about it. Something like, ‘fine whatever, fuck it.’”
She rolls onto her side, glaring. “Do you want me to take it back?”
You grin, all teeth. “Kinda want you to say it again actually.”
She groans, throwing her arm over her face like you’re torturing her.
You lean in closer, eyes wide and soft. “Please?”
There’s a long pause.
Then:
“…You’re my girlfriend,” she mumbles, barely audible.
You gasp. “What?”
She rips the pillow from under her and smacks you with it lightly. “You heard me.”
You fall back, giggling like it’s the best thing you’ve ever been called. “I really did. I just wanted to see you say it twice.”
Regina huffs, but there’s a pink tint blooming across her cheeks. “You’re so annoying.”
You smile at her like she hung the stars. “I’m your annoying girlfriend.”
She doesn’t say anything back.
But when you scoot a little closer and your fingers barely graze hers—
She lets them stay.
“…God, I’m gonna be so nice to you it’s disgusting.”
Regina George trying to initiate cuddling as new girlfriends
————————————
Regina’s lying in bed beside you, both of you staring at the ceiling like you’re waiting for divine intervention to tell you how girlfriends are supposed to behave.
Your hand is maybe… six inches from hers. It was twelve, but she inched closer a few minutes ago and pretended she didn’t.
You’re chatting about something stupid—someone’s outfit, a teacher who definitely has favorites—but your voice trails off when Regina suddenly shifts.
She turns on her side, facing you, head propped up on her hand.
“You look cold,” she says flatly.
You blink. “I’m literally sweating.”
“Well. You look cold,” she repeats. “So like, if you wanted to get closer to me or whatever, that’d be fine.”
You smile, confused. “Why would I do that if I’m warm?”
She pauses. Visibly short-circuiting.
“…You know what, never mind.”
She turns back over like she didn’t just emotionally offer herself up like a cat bringing a half-dead bird to your feet.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing.
But a few minutes later, she tries again. Subtler. (Worse.)
“You know what’s stupid?” she says into the darkness. “The idea that cuddling makes people catch feelings. Like, that’s not real. That’s just biology. Pressure on the skin, serotonin release. Whatever.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Are you trying to cite science to trick me into spooning you?”
Regina gasps. “Trick you?? Babe, you literally just said you wanted to cuddle me.”
You sit up, eyebrows shooting up. “I did not!”
“Yes you did,” she says, grabbing a pillow like she’s about to weaponize it. “I’m pretty sure I heard you say it.”
You stare at her. She stares right back.
There’s a beat of silence. Then, both of you burst out laughing.
She tackles you onto the pillows dramatically, one leg tossed over yours, hair in your face, full Regina George chaos.
“You’re so obsessed with me,” she mutters against your collarbone, clearly trying to hide the fact that she’s clinging now.
And you?
You wrap your arms around her and smile into her hair.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I really, really am.”
****
You’re curled into her now—legs intertwined, one of her arms slung across your stomach like she accidentally ended up there (she didn’t). Her face is tucked against your neck, dangerously close to hearing your heartbeat having a literal stroke.
It’s quiet now. Not the awkward kind—just warm and soft and maybe a little too still.
Then, out of nowhere, she says it.
“I think you should kiss me.”
It’s so casual you almost don’t catch it.
You pull back just enough to look at her. “What?”
She clears her throat, barely making eye contact. “I said I think you should kiss me.”
“…Are you sure?”
She scoffs. “Don’t make it weird.”
“You just asked me to kiss you.”
“Exactly. Like a normal person.” Her voice is getting higher. She’s spiraling. “So can you just do it before I change my mind and start bullying you again?”
You laugh, soft and breathy. “Okay, okay…”
You lean in—slowly, carefully—and just when you’re about to close the gap, she turns her head slightly too fast.
You kiss her cheekbone. Dead center. Loud and dramatic.
Regina’s eyes go wide. “Did you just—Oh my god. That was my cheek.”
You try not to laugh. “I missed, okay?! You moved.”
“I did not move. You aimed wrong.”
“You twitched!”
Regina grabs a pillow and hits you once—gently, but with righteous fury. “Great. My first kiss with you and you fumbled the bag like a dumb little simp.”
“You fumbled my face!”
There’s a beat of silence. You’re both staring at each other. Breathless. Blushing.
Then Regina exhales through her nose, deep and exaggerated, like she’s doing you a favor.
“Fine. Let’s try again. Don’t make it a thing.”
You nod. “Totally not a thing.”
This time, you both go still. No twitching. No flinching.
You lean in—slowly, softly—and kiss her. Properly. Gently. Lips against lips, warm and sure and slightly shaky.
When you pull back, she doesn’t say anything.
She just blinks at you once. Then twice. And whispers:
“…Okay, maybe that was a thing.”
You grin. “Told you.”
She punches your arm. “Shut up.”
But she’s smiling.
And she doesn’t move away. You’re still close.
Your face is barely inches from hers. You can feel her breath on your lips, warm and shallow, like she hasn’t fully recovered from what just happened.
She blinks once, then looks away—but not far. Just down. Somewhere near your mouth. Like maybe if she stares hard enough, she can figure out what the hell just short-circuited inside her ribcage.
You wait. Silent. Letting her process.
Then, barely above a whisper—
“Wait… okay.”
She swallows, cheeks flushed. The edge in her voice is gone. All that bravado? Vanished.
“…Do it again,” she says, quieter this time.
Then her voice dips one more octave—like it costs her something.
“…Please.”
Your breath hitches.
And she knows what she just said. She knows what she sounded like. She’s already regretting it, her fingers twitching with instinct to mock or cover it up—but you move before she can.
You lean in again. Slower this time. Like you’re handling something fragile.
And when your lips meet hers again, it’s softer. Warmer. Longer. Her hand grabs the edge of your shirt without meaning to. She kisses you back like she wants to be good at it—like she wants to make this real.
When you finally break apart, she doesn’t move away.
She stays close. Nose brushing yours. Eyes still half-lidded and dazed.
And then—just barely above a mutter:
“Ugh. I’m gonna throw up. I liked that.”
You laugh softly. “You said please.”
“Shut up.”
“You begged.”
“Shut. up.”
But she doesn’t pull away.
Not even a little.
She’s still hovering near your mouth—close enough that you can feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers are twitching slightly on your shirt like she doesn’t know if she should push you away or pull you under her.
And then you whisper, breath catching—
“Wait… okay. One more time.”
Her head jerks back an inch, eyes snapping to yours.
“Are you copying me right now?”
You’re already leaning in again. “Shhh. Don’t ruin it.”
Regina doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just lets it happen—lets your lips press into hers again, gentle and hungry, like kissing her is a habit you’ve always had and only just remembered.
This one’s deeper. Slower. Her hand slides up to your jaw and holds you there. Soft. Possessive. Like she didn’t mean to but now she can’t not.
When you pull away this time, you don’t even move far.
You hover. Your noses are brushing. You both look dumb as hell.
She exhales.
“…Okay fine maybe like… one more more time.”
You smile. “Oh so now we’re keeping score.”
“I’m literally doing you a favor.”
You kiss her again.
Quick.
Then again.
Slower.
Then once more—just because she makes that tiny noise in her throat and you know she’ll deny it later.
You barely pull back when you murmur, “Can we just keep doing this forever?”
Regina stares at you. Her lips are flushed. Her voice is wrecked. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
She pushes your head down into her chest, arm wrapping around you like it’s muscle memory. “Shut up,” she mutters into your hair. “Before I propose or something.”
You laugh. Heart pounding. Hands gentle where they hold her waist.
And she holds you like this is the first time she’s been quiet in months.
Regina is pacing. Hair perfect. Eyeliner dangerous. Heart beating way too loud for someone who definitely doesn’t care.
You’re leaning against the wall like you were born to cause problems in hallways. One hand in your pocket. Other holding a lollipop you’re not even eating. Just twirling it. Menace.
Regina stops in front of you. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed.
“You’re seriously not going to apologize?”
You blink. “For what? Looking this good during school hours?”
“For—ugh—you know.”
You tilt your head. “I genuinely don’t. You’ll have to be more specific. I do a lot of upsetting things. It’s kind of my charm.”
She glares. “For messing with my head.”
“Regina, I breathe and you spiral. That sounds like a you problem.”
“I kissed you,” she hisses.
“Ohhh,” you say, nodding slowly. “So we’re admitting it now. Cute.”
Regina throws her hands in the air like she’s rehearsing for a music video called “Why Am I Attracted to Chaos.”
“It didn’t mean anything!”
You smirk. “Then why’d you sprint out of my car like it was on fire?”
“I had plans.”
“It was 11:30 at night.”
“Plans can be internal, okay?!”
You step forward — not too close, just enough to rattle her aura.
“Okay,” you say softly, “then kiss me again. Prove it didn’t mean anything.”
She freezes. “What?”
You shrug. “You said it wasn’t serious. So kiss me again. Right now. Let’s both laugh about how stupid and meaningless it is.”
She stares at you like you just offered her a lit match and a stack of love letters.
“I’m not kissing you again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“Oh, totally. That’s why you’re standing there like a Sims character trying to decide between woohoo or cry in the shower.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Opens it again.
And then she grabs your collar and kisses you like it’s a dare. Hot. Fast. Infuriatingly good.
You drop the lollipop. It’s a tragic loss.
Your hand finds her waist, her hand’s in your hair, and for a few glorious seconds, the hallway doesn’t exist.
Then—
She pulls back.
Like she just realized she left the oven on and emotionally exposed herself.
Her eyes go wide.
You blink at her. “Wow. That was—”
“I gotta go,” she blurts, already halfway down the hallway.
You call after her: “Okay but like… rate that on a scale from 1 to traumatic!”
She doesn’t answer.
You stand there, lips tingling, heart confused, lollipop abandoned like a fallen soldier.
“…So I guess we’re in the denial phase,” you mutter.
****
Regina has never been more put-together in her life.
Hair: curled.
Outfit: coordinated to the molecular level.
Earrings: a little too sharp for school safety standards.
She struts down the hall like nothing happened. Like she didn’t kiss you. Like she didn’t run away like a squirrel on Red Bull.
Except—
Karen won’t stop smiling at her.
“What?” Regina snaps.
Karen shrugs. “You look like you kissed someone and then emotionally blacked out.”
Gretchen gasps. “Did you kiss someone and emotionally black out?!”
Regina rolls her eyes so hard it’s a full ab workout.
“No. Shut up. Leave me alone. I have homeroom.”
She whips around a corner—
And sees you.
Leaning against her locker.
Again.
Are you even in this hallway?? Do you take classes or are you just haunting her?
You don’t say anything. Just smile. One of those smug little “I know what your lip gloss tastes like” smiles.
Regina makes the executive decision to ignore you. It takes 40% of her willpower. The other 60% is busy replaying the kiss like it’s a trailer for a movie she’ll pretend not to watch three more times.
She walks past you.
You murmur, casual as hell: “Morning, runner-up.”
She stops dead.
Turns. Slowly.
“I what?”
You grin. “You kissed me. Then ran. Technically I win.”
“Win what?! This isn’t a competition!”
You tilt your head. “Isn’t it?”
Regina glares. “You’re so—Ugh!”
Karen gasps behind her. “Oh my god… you did kiss her.”
Regina spins. “Snitches get stitches, Karen!”
You just sip your iced coffee like nothing’s happening.
Regina stomps away, furious, flustered, and 5% in love.
---
She’s in class. Faking notes. Drawing tiny knives in the margin of her notebook.
Underneath one she writes:
“Do NOT make eye contact with her.”
Then immediately draws hearts next to it.
Then scribbles those out.
Then redraws them. Smaller.
Gretchen texts her:
so you kissed her??? 😳
Regina texts back:
NO
Then:
yes. shut up.
You walk past the window outside the classroom at that exact moment.
Regina catches a glimpse.
You wink.
She throws her pencil. It hits the whiteboard. The teacher flinches.
---
Meanwhile, you are vibing.
You are floating through the day like you didn’t just make Regina George short-circuit with one (1) kiss and an iced beverage.
People are talking. You don’t care.
You text her one thing:
“I had fun last night. Let me know when you want to lose again.”
She leaves it on read.
Which is hilarious. Because she then immediately opens your Instagram story. Twice.
---
She is lying face down on a velvet pillow, muffling a scream.
Her journal is open. It says:
“I HATE HER I HATE HER I HATE HER
P.S. do not reread that kiss
P.P.S. stop picturing her collarbone
P.P.P.S. stop wondering what her hair smells like
P.P.P.P.S. it smelled expensive and unfair”
She flips to a new page and writes:
OPERATION: KISS NEVER HAPPENED
avoid eye contact
pretend she’s boring
date someone taller
develop sudden interest in lacrosse
maybe fake mono
She slams the journal shut.
Then reopens it.
Adds:
“ALSO — steal her jacket again. She looked stressed. That was fun.”
****
You're sitting in homeroom, sipping matcha out of a glass bottle like a threat.
Everyone else is buzzing — some dumb hallway scandal, Karen’s new boyfriend, that junior who cried during AP Chem.
You don’t care.
You’re rereading the same line in your notebook for the fifth time and pretending it has nothing to do with Regina George kissing you like she meant it and then bolting like you said “I love you” instead of just… stood there looking hot.
(Which, to be fair, you did look hot. It’s not your fault she’s emotionally allergic to being into someone with a pulse.)
You pull out your phone.
No text.
You’re not surprised.
You didn’t expect a “hey sorry I panicked mid-liplock, lol xoxo” message.
But still.
Still.
You lean back in your seat and type out a text with the casual elegance of a soap opera character in denial:
You kissed me.
You ran.
I stayed.
That says everything.
You stare at it.
Then hit send.
You don’t expect a reply.
(But your screen stays on for just a second too long, just in case.)
---
The hallway is loud. Too loud. Lockers slam. Girls laugh too hard. Guys try too hard. You move through it like a shadow.
You pass her locker.
She’s there.
Hair flipped. Laugh loud. She’s doing that thing where she looks extra casual — like she’s trying to make breathing seem interesting.
You walk past.
No smirk. No wink. No stupid one-liner.
Just a tiny nod.
Like: I saw you. I miss you. I’m not begging.
She freezes mid-laugh.
Doesn’t turn.
But you see her shoulders twitch.
Score one for inner peace, zero for emotional regulation.
---
At lunch, you sit alone.
Not because you're lonely — because you're a public service.
People know better than to bother you when you’re in your mysterious hoodie and sunglasses indoors mode.
You scroll your phone.
Check your text again.
Still nothing.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
You open Notes. Type:
“Regina George = coward (hot).”
“Why do I have a crush on a human fire alarm.”
“Is it gay to overanalyze hallway glances?”
You close Notes before you spiral into writing poetry again.
---
After school, you catch a glimpse of her in the parking lot.
She’s with Shane.
Of course she is.
You raise an eyebrow. Not jealous. Just… vaguely judgmental.
She laughs at something he says — too loud. Like it’s for you.
You lean against your car, sipping what’s now room temp matcha, and toss her a lazy two-finger wave.
She flips her hair.
You smile.
She doesn’t smile back — but she lingers a second too long before turning away.
Which is enough.
---
You lie on your bed, hoodie on, music playing like your house has a soundtrack.
You stare at the ceiling.
You think about her hands. Her lip gloss. The way she pulled back like she was scared of you, and not of what she felt.
You don’t text again.
You’ve said what needed saying.
You kissed me.
You ran.
I stayed.
That’s all she needs to know.
The rest?
Is her move.
But of course, seeing her with Shane earlier still hurt a little bit.
****
It starts innocently.
You’re just walking to class like a normal, deeply cool person who’s totally not secretly hoping Regina makes eye contact today. Your vibes? Calm. Your fit? Elite. Your emotional state? Chill but mysterious.
Meanwhile, Regina is two hallways over, dramatically explaining to Gretchen how she’s totally fine, not flustered, and “barely even remembers the kiss.”
Karen: “What kiss?”
Regina: “Exactly.”
Then the fire alarm goes off.
It’s fake. Clearly. But the teachers start herding students like sheep in Gucci.
You duck into the janitor’s closet to avoid chaos.
Regina?
Also ducks into the janitor’s closet.
Because the universe is a bitch.
The door slams shut behind her.
You blink. She freezes.
The silence is immediate and loud.
You lean back against the mop bucket with your arms crossed. “Hey there, stranger.”
Regina looks around like she’s checking for cameras. Or exits. Or divine intervention.
“You,” she says flatly.
“Me,” you reply, grinning.
A long beat. The air smells like lemon disinfectant and emotional tension.
You add, “Cute hiding spot. Trying to avoid me or the fire drill?”
She glares. “Neither. I just needed… space.”
You raise an eyebrow. “So you chose a broom closet?”
She crosses her arms. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I am,” you admit. “You ghosted me like a Victorian man going off to war. What am I supposed to do, not find this funny?”
“I didn’t ghost you.”
“Regina, I could’ve declared you legally dead.”
“I was busy.”
“You viewed my story eleven times, babe.”
She throws her head back like God is testing her specifically.
“Okay, fine! I panicked! Sue me!”
You blink. “...Was that… honesty?”
Regina freezes again. Like she just heard herself.
“I—no. Shut up. You hallucinated that.”
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. “So let me get this straight. You kissed me, sprinted away, avoided me for two days, and now we’re locked in a glorified mop cave and you’re gaslighting me about your own emotional breakdown?”
“I am NOT breaking down!”
You point at her shoes. “You’re wearing flats.”
She gasps. “They’re Chanel.”
“They’re an admission of guilt.”
“I WILL PUT A MOP THROUGH YOUR FACE.”
A beat.
You both stare at each other.
Then—unexpectedly—Regina laughs.
Like actually laughs.
She leans back against the wall, covers her face, and laughs like someone who’s finally snapped in a cute way.
You watch her, caught off guard. “Okay, that was hot.”
She groans through her fingers. “I hate how calm you are.”
You smile, softer now. “It’s easy. I’m not the one pretending this isn’t a thing.”
She peeks through her fingers. “It’s not.”
You nod. “Sure. And I definitely didn’t rewatch that kiss in my head eight times while brushing my teeth.”
Regina drops her hands. “You did what?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“You started it.”
“You kissed me back.”
“You tasted like expensive lip gloss and world domination. Can you blame me?”
She flushes. Full-on cheeks-to-the-heavens flushes.
You smirk. “And you ran. Babe, I thought I had bad game, but that was a whole flight instinct.”
“I panicked,” she says again, quieter now.
You pause.
“Yeah. I know.”
The air shifts. The tension’s still there, but it’s quieter now. Less fire. More smoke.
You ask, “Why’d you come in here, really?”
She shrugs, suddenly shy. “Didn’t know it was you.”
You nod.
Then say, “Do you regret it?”
The kiss. The moment. The spiral. All of it.
She hesitates. Then shakes her head.
“No,” she says. “I just hate that it meant something.”
You hum. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Regina glances at you. “I’m not good at… this.”
“What’s this?”
She gestures vaguely. “Feelings. Honesty. Eye contact that isn’t threatening.”
You grin. “I noticed.”
She sighs. “You’re too calm about this. You should be weird and flirty and annoying.”
“I am flirty and annoying.”
“You’re also…” She trails off. Then, barely audible: “Nice.”
You pretend to gasp. “Did Regina George just say I’m nice? Are you dying?”
“Shut up,” she mutters, eyes darting to the door. “Can we leave yet?”
“Not until you admit I’m winning.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re blushing again.”
She glares. You wink.
The fire alarm cuts out. A voice comes over the speaker: “False alarm. Please return to class.”
Regina opens the door in record time. Walks out like she wasn’t just accidentally vulnerable in a janitor’s closet.
You follow, smug as hell.
“Same time tomorrow?” you tease.
“Choke,” she replies, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.
****
Regina is fine.
She’s great, actually. Totally over it. Definitely not stalking your Instagram for signs of romantic activity.
So when she sees you in the courtyard talking to someone new?
She does what any emotionally stable person would do.
She drops her iced coffee.
“What?” Gretchen asks.
“Nothing,” Regina says.
“Then why are you staring at her like you’re about to order a hit?”
“I’m not staring,” Regina lies. “I’m observing.”
“Okay but like… you’re vibrating.”
Karen looks over. “Ooh, who’s she talking to?”
Regina doesn’t even look away. “His name is Jason. He plays guitar and calls women ‘m’lady.’ I’ll be shocked if she doesn’t die of secondhand embarrassment.”
Jason laughs at something you say.
You smile.
Regina narrows her eyes. “What did he say. Someone tell me what he said.”
Gretchen squints. “I think it was a joke about frogs?”
Karen: “Aww. Frogs are romantic.”
Regina: “Okay. New plan. Frogs are cancelled.”
---
You’re leaving the library when you feel it.
The stare.
You turn.
Regina’s standing there.
Pink jacket. Big sunglasses. Holding a water bottle like it personally wronged her.
“Hey,” she says coolly.
You raise an eyebrow. “Hey.”
She glances behind you. “New boyfriend?”
You smirk. “What, Jason?”
She shrugs. “Just wondering who I’m gonna have to publicly ruin.”
You laugh. “Jealousy looks cute on you.”
She snorts. “This isn’t jealousy. I’m just... emotionally invested in your taste.”
You lean forward, voice low. “You sure it’s not because you liked the taste last week?”
Her mouth opens. Closes.
“No comment,” she mutters, spinning on her heel and walking away too fast.
---
The next day you’re sitting alone in the courtyard.
Jason approaches again.
“Hey,” he says. “Wanna grab lunch?”
You’re about to answer when someone physically slides into the seat next to you like it’s a TikTok challenge.
Regina.
She smiles sweetly at Jason. “Oh my god, hey.”
Jason blinks. “Uh. Hey?”
“You’re Jason, right?” She leans in, fake-whispers, “Did you know she’s allergic to jazz music and emotional immaturity?”
You blink. “What.”
Regina keeps going. “Also frogs give her hives. Just so you know.”
Jason looks concerned. “Frogs??”
You sigh. “Regina.”
She smiles. “What? I’m being helpful.”
Jason backs away slowly. “I’m just gonna... go.”
“You do that,” Regina says, still smiling.
He’s gone.
You stare at her. “Did you just ruin a date out of spite?”
She shrugs. “I’m not proud of myself.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“Okay. I’m a little proud.”
---
Later that week Regina posts a selfie.
Caption: “Not jealous. Just hotter. 💋”
Gretchen comments: “babe you literally told jason his aura was ‘too middle class’”
Regina deletes it.
Then reposts it with: “u ever see someone flirting with your girl & suddenly want to invent a new crime”
Karen likes the post twice.
---
Bonus: Regina’s Journal (written in furious pink ink)
“SHE’S TALKING TO OTHER PEOPLE.”
“I HATE JASON. I HATE HIS STUPID GUITAR.”
“DOES SHE MISS ME OR IS SHE JUST ATTRACTIVE TO EVERYONE.”
“stop. spiraling. you menace.”
“god she looked hot in that hoodie. i want it back. and by it i mean her. and the hoodie. both.”
****
Regina is done.
She’s had enough of you being mysterious and unbothered while she spirals like a YouTube beauty guru in 2015.
You’ve been charming and calm and devastatingly hot and for what? To talk to Jason the Frog Boy?
So she makes a decision.
A bad one.
“Hey, Shane,” she purrs, sliding into the cafeteria like she’s entering a music video.
Shane blinks. “Hey?”
He looks surprised. Which is fair. Last week, she told him he had the emotional depth of a wet napkin.
But now she’s smiling. Hair perfect. Lip gloss lethal.
“You doing anything right now?” she asks, real sweet.
He blinks. “Uh. No?”
“Perfect.” She takes his hand and drags him out into the courtyard.
Gretchen watches her go like someone witnessing a car accident in slow motion.
Karen: “Is she okay?”
Gretchen: “She’s pretending.”
Karen: “Ohh. Got it.”
---
She plops down on a bench with Shane. Laughs at a joke he didn’t tell.
Twirls her hair like it personally asked to be flirted with.
You walk out just in time to see her place a hand on Shane’s shoulder.
And you pause.
Not long.
But just enough for Regina to notice.
She catches your eye.
Raises an eyebrow.
Smirks.
Then turns back to Shane. “You’ve been working out, right?”
You roll your eyes. Walk past like she’s not trying to murder you with attention-seeking behavior.
It should’ve ended there.
But Shane… gets ideas.
“Hey,” he says, scooting closer. “You look really hot today.”
Regina smiles, tight. “Thanks.”
He rests a hand on her thigh.
The smile drops half an inch. “Okay.”
He leans in more. “You smell, like… expensive.”
Her entire soul does a record scratch. “Cool.”
His hand creeps higher.
Regina freezes.
She’s panicking. Not visibly. But it’s in her shoulders. Her eyes. The way she suddenly looks very interested in the grass.
Shane leans in like he’s about to kiss her.
Regina does not move.
Because she doesn’t know what to do. And she doesn’t want to start a scene. And she doesn't want to admit this was a mistake.
But then—
You’re there.
One smooth step between them.
Your voice? Calm. Flat. Just a little too polite.
“Hey, man. You good?”
Shane blinks. “Uh—yeah. I was just—”
“Leaving,” you finish.
Not a question.
Your hand’s resting lightly on the bench back, like you’re not casually radiating get your hands off her before I end you energy.
Shane stammers. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”
He backs off. Practically sprints away.
Silence.
Regina’s staring at the ground. Hands clenched in her lap.
You look down at her. “You alright?”
She nods. Too quickly. “Yeah.”
You raise an eyebrow.
She sighs. “No. That was… not great.”
You sit beside her. Not close. Just enough.
“You could’ve said something.”
“I didn’t want to look weak.”
“You didn’t.”
She glances at you.
And for the first time in a long time, her voice is small. “Thanks.”
You shrug. “Didn’t like the way he touched you.”
She swallows. Looks down. “Yeah. Me neither.”
Silence.
But not heavy this time.
Just... honest.
Then she mutters, like she’s speaking to the grass:
“This would be so much easier if I just… communicated.”
You grin. “Crazy concept.”
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”
But she’s smiling now.
---
That night...
She writes in her journal:
“almost got groped. deserved it a little. not that much.”
“she SAVED me. AGAIN. while looking stupid hot.”
“why does she always show up like it’s no big deal??”
“why can’t I just say: ‘hey I like you and I’m scared’ — what is wrong with me.”
“note to self: communication is not a disease.”
****
She’s wearing one of your hoodies again.
She won’t admit that’s what it is — she’s borrowing it. Temporarily. For fashion purposes. Shut up.
It smells like you. Which is rude.
She’s on her bed. Legs dangling off the edge, phone resting on her stomach, eyes staring at the ceiling like it personally owes her money.
Earlier, you took her out again.
And she doesn’t know how you pulled that off, because up until that moment? You two were in full avoidance mode.
You?
Showed up anyway.
You cornered her gently — in the quiet part of the library, like you knew she’d be too tired to make a scene — and just… asked.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Wanna grab dinner and ignore the part where you sprinted away from my face later?”
She glared at you. You smiled. She rolled her eyes. You waited.
You were so calm. So gentle. You didn’t tease. Didn’t push. You just let her know — if she wanted to try again, if she wanted something easy and low-stakes, you’d be there.
And she said yes.
Not because she forgave herself for being weird.
Not because she’s figured out what she wants.
She said yes because you were patient.
And because the thought of sitting in her room and pretending she didn’t miss you was worse.
So now here she is. Again.
Full hoodie. Full crisis.
Her phone buzzes.
It’s you.
you home okay?
She stares at the screen for a full minute before replying:
yeah. thanks for tonight
You respond immediately:
always
That’s it.
That’s all you send.
No heart emoji. No innuendo. No “still thinking about your lips” even though she knows you are. Just…
Always.
Like this is just who you are. How you treat her. Like she’s allowed to exist in this weird little space between avoidance and almost-love, and you’re not rushing her to pick.
And it’s driving her insane.
Because here’s the thing:
You’re basically together.
You flirt. You text constantly. You held her hand once. You’ve kissed. And then didn’t talk about it. And then didn’t talk. Period. And now you're pretending none of that happened — and yet...
You haven’t put a label on it.
You haven’t asked.
And she knows it’s because she’s being weird.
She pulls her journal out of the drawer. Not the Burn Book one — the real one. The one no one knows about.
She flips to a blank page and starts writing.
okay. so what is this.
i like her. a lot. obviously.
she’s… infuriating. and kind. and hot. and patient. and just?? ugh.
she treats me like i’m human and that’s actually terrifying.
and she hasn’t asked what we are because she knows i’ll panic.
which is unfair. because i would panic. but still. unfair.
i keep thinking she’ll get tired of waiting.
that she’ll stop showing up.
that she’ll kiss someone else.
someone who doesn’t have to work so hard to be soft.
She stares at the last line.
Then crosses it out.
Then writes it again.
someone who doesn’t have to work so hard to be soft.
She throws the journal onto the floor and flops back onto her bed.
She hates this.
She hates caring.
She hates that she can’t just say it — “I like you. I want this. Please don’t leave.”
But every time she tries, it catches in her throat like a splinter.
So instead she says nothing.
And wears your hoodie.
And texts you back with emojis instead of honesty.
And waits.
And hopes you’re still there when she finally figures out how to not ruin the one thing that actually feels real.
****
The hallway is alive.
Someone’s blasting music from their bag like the soundtrack to a high school fever dream.
And in the middle of it all?
Regina George.
Heels clicking. Skirt perfect. Blazer cinched like it has bloodlust.
She looks exactly like she always does.
But something’s wrong.
Karen notices first.
“Your lip gloss is matte.”
Regina blinks. “What?”
Karen tilts her head. “You always wear the shiny one on Thursdays.”
Regina looks down at her phone like she can scroll away her feelings. “I forgot.”
Gretchen appears, coffee in hand, and freezes. “Oh my god. What happened.”
“Nothing,” Regina snaps.
Karen leans in. “Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Are you in love?”
Regina nearly walks into a locker.
“I’m not in—” she stops, catches herself, lowers her voice. “No. I’m fine.”
But she’s not fine.
She’s been off all day.
She didn’t rip into anyone for wearing sneakers with a skirt. She didn’t roll her eyes at the couple making out near the vending machines. She let Gretchen get the last word in during homeroom.
Regina George — queen of the food chain, lip gloss warfare specialist — has lost her edge.
And the thing is?
Everyone else can feel it.
Because she’s still beautiful. Still biting. Still terrifying in theory.
But today, her power feels like a costume. Like she put it on over something cracked.
And when you pass her in the hallway — all cool composure and unreadable eyes — she doesn’t glare. Doesn’t smirk.
She just… watches you walk by.
Quietly.
And that’s somehow worse.
---
At lunch, the Plastics sit at their usual table.
Regina’s picking at a salad she doesn’t even like. Her phone lights up — a message from Shane, something flirty and dumb.
She doesn’t even open it.
Gretchen’s watching her carefully.
“Did something happen with her?” she asks.
Regina blinks. “Who?”
Gretchen gives her a look.
Regina sighs. “Nothing happened.”
“Is that a lie or denial?”
“Yes.”
Karen’s munching on something green. “You know, you can like her and still be mean. Just like… tell her you like her and then emotionally ruin her after.”
Regina stares at her.
Karen shrugs. “That’s what I’d do.”
Gretchen sips her drink. “Honestly? Same.”
Regina looks down at her phone again.
No new texts.
She told you she got home okay. You told her “Always.”
And now?
Nothing.
Because you’re waiting. Watching. Being patient in that maddeningly noble way that makes her want to kiss you and scream at you at the same time.
She slumps a little in her seat — just enough for Gretchen to gasp.
“You slouched,” she hisses. “You never slouch.”
Karen gasps too. “Oh my god. Are you depressed?”
“I’m FINE,” Regina snaps, straightening immediately.
But her salad remains untouched.
And her mind?
Not here.
---
Regina stands at her locker, staring at the back of the door like it’s going to offer her advice.
She wants to talk to you.
She wants to kiss you again.
She wants to stop pretending that love is a weakness she can’t afford.
But instead?
She applies a fresh coat of lip gloss.
And walks away.
Like she’s still on top.
Like she didn’t cry in your hoodie last night.
****
There’s a knock at your door.
Three sharp little raps, like she’s pissed off at the wood and also possibly her own feelings.
You open it slowly.
Regina George is standing there in a floor-length coat, heels that were not made for emotional vulnerability, and lip gloss so dangerous it’s probably FDA-regulated.
Her arms are crossed. Her face is unreadable.
And you?
You blink once. “Lose a bet?”
She doesn’t laugh. Just says, flatly:
“I came to say something completely uncharacteristic and probably humiliating. You gonna let me in or should I cry on your porch and ruin my mascara?”
You open the door wider. “By all means. Enter dramatically.”
She steps inside like she owns the place.
(Like she didn’t spend twenty minutes pacing outside trying to decide if this was a terrible idea.)
She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t take her coat off. She just turns to face you in the middle of your living room like she’s about to deliver a monologue and/or challenge you to a duel.
“I ran,” she says quickly, like if she says it fast enough, it won’t sound like a confession. “Because you made it real. And I only know how to flirt, sabotage, or emotionally ruin men named Aaron.”
You blink. “Thank you for your honesty?”
She exhales. “You’re welcome. I hated saying that.”
You gesture to the couch. “Sit down before your feelings fall out of your purse.”
She finally shrugs off the coat. Tosses it across the arm of the chair like she didn’t practice doing that in the mirror six times.
Then she turns back to you.
Something softer now. Almost scared.
Almost.
“Do you still want me?”
It’s not breathless or shaky. It’s just... wobbly in the corners. Like the sentence is trying not to unravel.
You stare at her.
She’s standing there in full glam, fake confidence cracking at the edges, waiting for you to say no so she can pretend she didn’t care in the first place.
Instead, you say:
“I never stopped.”
Regina blinks.
“Oh,” she says.
Then, louder: “Well that’s annoying.”
You grin. “I’m annoying?”
“You’re too calm about all this. It’s unsettling. You should be flustered. Or on fire. Or crying.”
You walk toward her, slow. “You want me to cry?”
“No,” she mutters. “That would make me like you more.”
You stop in front of her. Close.
She doesn’t step back.
You reach out — gently — and tuck a piece of hair behind her ear.
She looks furious about how much she likes that.
“You don’t have to panic, Regina,” you say softly. “We’re not writing wedding vows. You can just… stay.”
She pauses.
Then: “You’re exhausting.”
You smile. “You’re welcome.”
She rolls her eyes.
Then leans in. Presses her forehead against yours for one quiet second.
And whispers:
“Fine. But if you get clingy I’m ghosting you.”
You snort. “Deal.”
She smiles. Just barely.
And for the first time maybe ever — she doesn’t feel like she’s winning.
She just feels safe.
****
Sunlight is being disrespectful.
It slants through the blinds like a nosy little bitch, lighting up your bedroom in perfect golden hour vibes that Regina did not consent to.
She wakes up tangled in the softest sheets she’s ever felt, wearing your hoodie and last night’s eyeliner, and the crushing weight of emotions.
Gross.
She blinks, sits up slowly.
You’re still asleep. Arm flopped across your pillow. One leg sticking out of the covers like a whole disaster.
You look... peaceful.
That’s probably illegal.
Regina stares at you.
Then looks around your room. It’s clean. Smells like you. There’s a mug on your desk that says “Hot Girls Don’t Cry (but They Could If They Wanted To).”
She exhales. Quiet. Still.
For a second, she lets herself stay there.
Just... still.
But then the spiral hits.
Oh god.
She stayed the night.
She cuddled you.
She wore your hoodie. She kissed you with feeling. She—slept here.
Like someone who likes you.
Like someone who wants to be liked back.
Panic. Panic in designer socks.
She quietly slips one leg off the bed. Feet hit the floor.
Maybe she can leave before you wake up. Pretend it never happened. Say she blacked out from emotions and fashion fatigue.
She grabs her coat. Looks at the door.
Just leave. Be cool. Be unattached. Be Regina.
Then—she glances back at the bed.
At you.
Your face half-buried in the pillow. Hair a mess. Breathing steady.
And something in her just... softens.
Goddammit.
You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t push. You didn’t ask for more.
You just let her be here.
And that’s the worst part.
Because she can’t remember the last time she was allowed to just be somewhere, without having to perform or win or impress or lead.
Just be.
She sighs.
Sets the coat down.
Climbs back into bed.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like she’s not fully surrendering, but maybe waving a little white flag under the covers.
You stir as she settles next to you.
Eyes still closed, voice rough with sleep:
“You were gonna ditch, weren’t you?”
She scoffs. “Shut up.”
You smile against the pillow. “You’re still here though.”
She rolls onto her side to face you.
“Yeah, well. Your bed’s comfy.”
You open one eye. “So’s your denial.”
She throws the blanket over your face. “I’m literally going to suffocate you.”
You giggle. She’s smiling now. Barely. But it’s real.
---
She’s in your kitchen ten minutes later.
Barefoot. Still in your hoodie. Hair up. Making coffee like she’s done it a hundred times.
You walk in, groggy. “We’re gonna be late.”
Regina glances at the clock.
It’s already noon.
She shrugs. “Guess we’re already dropouts. Might as well commit.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Skipping school for vibes?”
She turns to face you, coffee in hand.
“Skipping school to stay in bed with the only person who makes me feel like I’m not an act.”
You blink.
She pauses.
Then adds, way too fast:
“But also, like, vibes.”
You laugh.
She hands you your coffee.
You clink mugs like idiots.
She leans against the counter.
And she doesn’t run.
Not this time.
****
You never planned to spend the whole weekend together.
It just… happened.
Friday started with a joke.
You said, “Wanna hit the park and judge people’s fashion decisions?”
She said, “Only if you promise to fan me the whole time we're there.”
Three hours later, you found yourselves in a thrift store trying on denim that should be illegal, and Regina was parading around in a pink cowboy hat she claimed was “satirical.” You bought it for her anyway. She called you stupid. Then wore it the rest of the day.
---
Saturday was a grocery store at 11:47 PM.
You only went in for cereal and left with strawberry milk, a single rose Regina dared you to steal (you didn’t), and a photo of the two of you dancing between the canned soup and frozen peas because the store playlist hit too hard.
She made you rate every brand of instant noodles by vibe.
You told her she gives off “high-end ramen energy.”
She almost smiled. Almost.
---
Sunday was warm concrete and rooftop blankets.
You brought snacks and a speaker. She brought shade and oversized sunglasses she didn’t need after sunset.
You stuck cheap glow-in-the-dark stars to a rusted vent fan.
“So you can look up and see proof the universe revolves around you,”
you said.
She groaned. “You’re exhausting.”
But she laid back anyway. Stayed until the stars peeled off.
---
At one point—somewhere between her grabbing your hand in the parking lot like it was nothing, and you catching her staring when she thought you weren’t—
you handed her a tiny silver frog keychain.
It had a crooked little crown.
She asked, “What the hell is this?”
You shrugged.
“Just thought you’d need a backup crown. For when you're feeling like pond scum instead of royalty.”
She rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might fall out.
But later, you caught her clipping it to her bag.
Said nothing.
And neither did she.
****
It was the next week.
You and Regina spent almost the whole week together at school and outside of school.
You both decided to just stay home today because you both could. Also, what's just one Monday away from school going to do?
Regina pads in wearing your oversized band tee, frog keychain twirling between her fingers. Coffee brews; sunlight is aggressively wholesome.
She leans on the counter, watching you butter toast like it’s a TED Talk on domesticity. Something in her expression stiffens—tiny panic lines at the corners of her eyes.
Regina (too casual):
“If I told you I hated you… would you go away?”
The words hang there, dressed up as bravado, trembling at the hems.
You don’t answer with a joke.
You move:
1. Set the butter knife down—slow, deliberate.
2. Walk to her side—no rush, no fanfare.
3. Curl her fingers open and place your own matching frog keychain (you grabbed a second one yesterday) right next to hers in her palm.
You close her hand around the twin charms, look her dead in the eye, and—soft, but certain—say only:
“Look—twins.”
Then you kiss the back of her knuckles and turn to pour her coffee, like it’s the most normal Monday routine in the world.
Regina stares at the two tiny frogs—cheap metal, shared secret—then at your back.
A breathy, involuntary laugh slips out; it sounds a lot like relief.
Regina (quiet, almost fond):
“I still might hate you.”
You, over your shoulder:
“Cool. I’ll bring snacks for the eternal loathing.”
She rolls her eyes—smiling, staying—and hooks both keychains onto the same zipper pull.
The toast pops. The universe blooms. Neither of you goes anywhere.
Soft Girls Don’t Stand a Chance (except you did. and it ruined her)
Regina George x Reader
------------------
The room buzzes with casual chaos — cliques clicking, plastics sparkling. Regina George sits dead center, polished and dangerous, flanked by Gretchen and Karen like she’s royalty on her stupid glitter throne.
You walk in — new kid energy, sure — but you don’t scan the room.
You already know who you’re looking for.
No one notices you until you’re standing right in front of her table.
Regina looks up slowly, like she can’t believe someone’s blocking her light.
“Can I help you?”
You smile. Calm. Confident. Hands in your pockets like you have all the time in the world.
“Yeah. I’m taking you out this weekend.”
The entire table stills.
Karen pauses mid-chew. Gretchen audibly gasps.
Regina scoffs, leaning back in her seat.
“Do you even know who I am?”
You nod, still smiling.
“Regina George. Queen bee. Heartbreaker. Looks good in pink.
I know who you are. The question is — do you know who I am?”
She blinks.
“...No?”
You lean down slightly, not breaking eye contact.
“Then come find out.”
You straighten up.
“Saturday. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
And then? You walk away.
Like you didn’t just declare romantic war in the middle of the cafeteria.
Regina stares after you, jaw slack, cheeks flushed.
Gretchen turns to her, whisper-shouting.
“What just happened?!”
Regina doesn’t answer.
Because she has no idea.
****
The front porch light is warm, but not as warm as the look on your face when the door finally swings open.
Regina’s standing there in a deep burgundy satin dress that hugs like a threat. Her heels are dagger-thin, her hair curled to death, and she’s wearing the kind of lip gloss that makes men cry and girls question their entire identity. She’s the devil dressed for dinner — and she knows it.
You, on the other hand, are in a crisp black suit — no tie, collar slightly undone, sleeves rolled just enough to flex. The kind of look that says I can flirt with your dad, then walk you to the door like a gentleman.
Your eyes sweep over her. One slow, deliberate pass.
“You clean up dangerously well.”
Regina scoffs, leaning on the frame.
“You act like you didn’t expect me to.”
You grin. “I did. I just like being right.”
She raises a brow. “Cocky.”
“Observant.”
Her eyes flick down your outfit.
“You wore a suit?”
You shrug, calm and casual. “You wore temptation.”
Her lips twitch — not quite a smile, not quite a sneer.
“Careful. Compliments like that get people punched.”
You lean a little closer.
“I don’t mind bruises.”
Regina pauses. Just for a second.
Then rolls her eyes, stepping outside and locking the door behind her.
“You always flirt like you’re narrating a perfume ad?”
You smirk, already walking her to the car.
“Only when the girl looks like sin in red.”
She slips into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh — but her cheeks are pink.
“You’re exhausting.”
“You’ll live.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
You walk around to your side, slow and composed, like you’ve already won — and Regina’s sitting there fuming because she’s not sure you haven’t.
--
The interior of your car smells like leather and something faintly citrus. The dashboard lights cast you in sharp, elegant angles as you drive — one hand on the wheel, the other relaxed near the gear shift, rings catching light every time you move.
Regina crosses her legs like she’s trying to look unbothered.
She is not unbothered.
“So. Where are you taking me?” she asks, studying you sideways.
You glance over, smirk tugging slow at your mouth.
“You’ll see.”
“If this ends at a Cheesecake Factory, I’m setting your car on fire.”
You chuckle. “You’re way too pretty for Cheesecake Factory.”
“Flattery’s cheap.”
You hum, pulling smoothly onto the freeway. “Good thing the restaurant isn’t.”
Regina raises a brow, arms folding.
“What, Daddy’s card paying for this little ego trip?”
You flash her a sidelong look, calm as ever.
“Please. I wouldn’t risk impressing you with someone else’s money.”
She looks at you for a long second.
You don’t break eye contact.
She looks away first.
Note to self, she thinks, this bitch is dangerous.
--
The valet opens her door and you’re already there — hand out, waiting for hers like it’s instinct. Regina hesitates only for half a second before slipping her fingers into yours.
The restaurant is dim, intimate, all glass chandeliers and white linen and waiters who definitely know who you are.
Regina doesn’t say anything when the hostess greets you by name.
Doesn’t flinch when the maître d’ leads you to a corner booth with actual privacy.
Doesn’t ask why there’s already a bottle of wine waiting at your table.
But she’s definitely noticing.
“You come here often?” she asks as you slide her chair out for her.
“Only when I want to impress someone.”
Regina rolls her eyes — but she’s smiling now. Just a little.
“Still working on that, huh?”
You pour her wine with practiced ease, never once breaking eye contact.
“Is it working?”
She sips the wine you poured for her. Looks you over.
“You’re lucky I’m into delusional people.”
“And you’re lucky I’m into girls who pretend not to be impressed.”
She smirks. “Oh, I’m impressed. That doesn’t mean you’re winning.”
You lean in slightly.
“Winning what?”
“This.”
“Is this a game now?”
Regina leans in too — elbows on the table, lips barely parted.
“It’s always a game.”
You laugh once, low and easy.
“I love games.”
They order. Something rich and rare, and you barely look at the menu. You’ve clearly been here before — another flex Regina silently clocks, right alongside the waiter who seems to know to bring her extra lemon with her water without being asked.
“Do you always take girls here?” she asks, folding her napkin into her lap with perfect poise.
You shrug, sipping from your wine glass like a Bond girl who also took AP Lit.
“Only the ones worth remembering.”
Regina scoffs, stabbing her salad a little too hard.
“Bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the ones who make it past lunch.”
She side-eyes you. “You’re annoying.”
You grin. “You’re blushing.”
She glares because she really is blushing.
It’s casual and intense at the same time. Every story told becomes a challenge.
She tells you about Gretchen’s weird food phase — you counter with a perfectly timed joke about how you used to paint your exes and now they’re all convinced they’re cursed.
You talk about moving from Boston.
She talks about how everyone here’s obsessed with her — but the way she says it sounds like a warning more than a brag.
“What, no big tragic backstory?” she asks, tipping her chin.
“Would it make me hotter?”
“Depends. Is there crying?”
“Only if you beg.”
She laughs. Loud and real.
And it slips — just for a second — how easy this is.
How comfortable you are.
How quickly you’ve made her feel seen.
She hates that.
--
The last bite sits between you like bait — dark chocolate velvet, raspberry glaze bleeding into whipped cream. One fork, two of you. And she gets to it first.
Not in a rush.
Not aggressive.
Just inevitable.
Regina’s hand drapes over the handle like it belongs to her. Like everything on this table does. She drags the fork through that final bite like she’s brushing the edge of something forbidden.
She doesn’t look at you.
Not at first.
She lifts the fork slowly — deliberate, elegant — and when her eyes finally meet yours, her mouth parts just slightly.
And then she bites.
Not polite. Not shy. She pulls the fork out with her teeth, lips curling around it as if it were something more than silver. Her tongue slips forward to catch the cream at the corner of her mouth and she lingers there, licking slow and thoughtful.
“You gonna offer me some of that,” you murmur, voice suddenly low, “or just keep seducing me with crumbs?”
She hums like she’s thinking it over.
Then holds the fork against her lower lip — like she’s still tasting it, like it’s still you.
“You’re a big girl,” she purrs. “Take what you want.”
You lean in.
Close enough to smell her perfume — some sweet, devastating thing that shouldn’t be legal on a schoolgirl.
“Careful,” you say, “I will.”
Regina places the fork down slowly. Her fingers trace the metal like she’s reluctant to let go.
Then she rests her chin on her hand, elbow propped on the white tablecloth, eyes locked on yours with all the heat of a sun about to explode.
“Maybe I want you to.”
There’s nothing fake in her voice.
It’s soft. Dangerous. The kind of tone people use before they ask you to ruin them.
And maybe that’s what she wants.
Or maybe she’s bluffing just to see if you’ll call it.
You drag your own fork through the leftovers. You don’t break eye contact, not once.
You bring it to your mouth, slow as anything.
“You sure about that?”
She tilts her head, mouth curved in a smirk so lazy it should be criminal. Her voice is velvet soaked in sin:
“What do you think?”
You don’t flinch.
You eat the bite — and then you lean back, slow and casual, like you didn’t just swallow the taste of her mouth.
“I think if I asked you to feed me the next one, you’d do it just to watch me fall apart.”
And Regina — God help her — falters.
Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to see.
But you catch it — the subtle hitch in her breath, the twitch at her jaw. Her legs cross under the table like she’s trying to keep something in place.
“You think I want you to fall apart?” she asks, voice all smoke and glass.
“No,” you say, smile carving into something too honest, too bold. “I think you want to be the reason.”
Her breath stutters.
Her lips part — maybe to reply, maybe to curse, maybe to lean across the table and end this whole fucking standoff with her mouth on yours.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she downs the last of her wine in a single breathless motion, eyes still locked on you like she’ll lose something if she looks away.
She’s not flustered.
She’s furious.
Furious that you’re winning.
Furious that she cares.
Furious that she might be the one falling apart.
--
Goddammit.
You’re charming. Effortlessly. The kind of charming that doesn’t ask for permission — just walks in and rearranges the furniture.
She can’t tell if she wants to flirt back or flee.
She can’t tell if you’re being sincere or playing the long game.
…But she kind of wants you to be playing.
Because that means she can win.
Even now — while you’re telling her a story about getting caught in the rain at a museum gala and making it sound romantic instead of humiliating — she’s plotting.
You’re confident. You’re soft. You’re dangerous.
So she’s thinking:
If I pull her close enough, she won’t see it coming when I let her go.
But then you smile at her like she’s already worth the risk.
Like you’d wait for her to come around without saying it out loud.
And it makes something ache in her chest that she doesn’t know how to name.
****
The hallway’s alive with chaos — lockers slamming, gum snapping, whispers loud enough to be intentional.
And then it parts.
Like the sea.
Like God herself hit pause.
Because they’re coming.
Regina, Gretchen, and Karen — The Plastics in full pink regalia.
Mini skirts. Blazers. High heels that have no business sounding like they do on linoleum.
Regina walks like the hallway belongs to her.
Like she built it.
Like her heels are the law and her lip gloss is a loaded weapon.
But then she sees you.
Leaning against a locker like you’ve got nowhere to be.
Not pink. Not smiling. Just… there. In black. In control. With your sleeves rolled up and your arms crossed, like you're the storm she didn't plan for.
You meet her eyes.
And smile — just a flicker, just enough.
Regina falters.
Not in her step. God, no. She wouldn’t give you that.
But it’s the eyes. That little shift. That flash of recognition.
She came to win, and you showed up like you already did.
Karen waves at you with both hands. Gretchen blinks twice, then leans into Regina’s shoulder.
“Is she looking at us?” Gretchen hisses.
“Obviously,” Regina mutters, straightening her spine. “She’s obsessed with me.”
You start walking.
Regina pretends not to care.
You’re close now. Real close. So close Regina has to fight the urge to glance at your mouth.
“Nice outfit,” you say, smooth as satin. “You always this subtle?”
She scoffs. Loud. Like she’s unbothered.
But her voice betrays her — too sharp, too quick.
“Is this supposed to be flirting?”
“Would it work if it was?”
“Try harder.”
“You sure you want me to?”
And that’s it.
That tiny crack in her lipstick-perfect exterior.
You see it — the way her tongue wets her bottom lip, how her eyes flicker down your neck for half a second too long.
“You’re not special,” she says, voice honeyed and acid-dipped. “Just because you walk around like you invented confidence.”
“And yet,” you murmur, stepping just a bit closer, “here you are, wearing pink on purpose. For me?”
She almost smirks. Almost.
“It’s Wednesday. It’s a rule.”
“You break rules all the time.”
She hates how true that is.
You lean in — not enough to touch, but close enough that she can smell you.
“You look good in pink, Regina.”
She rolls her eyes. Too late. Her pulse is already in her ears.
You don’t wait for a response.
You walk past her, all quiet confidence and subtle amusement — leaving perfume and ruin behind you.
Regina turns, jaw clenched, trying not to watch you go.
But she does.
Karen giggles. “She’s so cool.”
“She’s annoying,” Regina snaps, eyes still locked on your retreating back.
Why the hell does she smell good?
Why the hell does she walk like that?
Why the hell does she know she has me without doing anything?
Why do I like it?
----
Her bedroom’s quiet.
Too quiet.
Except for the pacing.
The click of designer slippers on hardwood.
The sound of seething.
Regina George does not get flustered.
She flusters.
She owns this school, this town, this zip code.
And yet…
She can’t stop thinking about the way you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.
The way you said “You sure you want me to?” like she was already halfway to yes.
She runs a hand through her hair — perfectly blown out, and now ruined — and groans at the ceiling.
“No. No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.”
She flops down on her bed like a woman freshly betrayed. Her phone lights up with notifications — Shane double-texting, Aaron posting thirst traps, someone asking her to prom already.
She sits up fast.
An idea.
A wicked, glittering, morally bankrupt idea.
“Okay. Okay. You wanna act like you’re unbothered?” she mutters, opening her phone, swiping fast. “Cool. Let’s see how you like it when I’ve got backup dancers.”
She types with manicured fury.
🧠 PLAN: REGAIN POWER
Reintroduce Shane to the chessboard. He’s hot, dumb, loyal. Safe.
Aaron = visual chaos. One hallway makeout should rattle any ego.
Casual flirts with random JV boys — diversify the field.
Act like you forgot reader’s name. Even though it’s burned into her eyelids.
She texts Shane something scandalous and vague, sends Aaron a pic of her lip gloss with zero context.
“Let’s see if she smiles like that when I’m on someone else’s lap.”
Still, even as she types, her jaw’s tight.
Because the truth — the ugly, painful, unRegina George truth — is that you didn’t even do anything dramatic.
You didn’t flirt with anyone else.
You didn’t even try to show her up.
You just stood there. Confident. Present. Powerful.
And for a second — just a second — she didn’t feel like the top of the food chain.
She felt… like prey.
She’s not even trying. That’s what’s so annoying. Like she doesn’t care if I bite, as long as she gets close enough to watch me twitch.
Regina kicks her legs off the bed. Stands again. Adjusts her robe like she’s about to walk onto a stage.
“Fine,” she says out loud. “You want a war? You got one.”
I’m Regina freaking George. You don’t make me nervous. I make you beg.
----
It starts in the hallway.
Again.
But this time?
You’re not leaning. You’re walking.
No backpack. Just a hand tucked in your jacket pocket, the other holding a $7 matcha in a reusable glass bottle.
Earrings in. Designer belt on.
You’re glowing — not sweaty from gym or smudged from math class.
Glowing like someone who sleeps well and has never once begged for attention.
And Regina sees you.
Of course she does.
She’s with Shane this time — hanging off her arm like a slightly evolved frat boy. His hand is on her waist. He laughs like he's proud to be seen.
You don’t stop.
But you do look.
And it’s the look that does it.
Cool. Curious.
Like Regina’s a passing exhibit at a zoo.
Cute. Predictable. Domesticated.
“Trying too hard,” Regina snaps quickly. “She wants me to look.”
But you don’t even glance back.
Instead? You slip your sunglasses on. Indoors.
And walk straight into the advanced art room with a teacher keycard you’re definitely not supposed to have — like the rules weren’t made for you in the first place.
Regina’s jaw tightens.
Why the hell do you walk like you know something I don’t?
Why does your silence feel louder than my entire goddamn Instagram feed?
----
Of course there’s a party.
A Friday night rager hosted by one of the trust fund kids in the next town over. Everyone who’s anyone is there.
Regina walks in with Shane in her passenger seat, pink mini dress blinding, lips glossy, neck strategically bitten. She’s the moment.
Or she should be.
But then someone turns.
And whispers:
“She’s here.”
Not about Regina.
About you.
And when Regina sees you — she wants to scream.
You’re on the back patio, half-lounging on an outdoor sectional, drink in hand, some college senior laughing too hard at something you definitely said on purpose. Your jacket is off. You’re in dark silk and silver rings. Your watch glints. Your posture is perfect.
You don’t even flinch when Regina walks up.
“Wow,” she says, arms crossed, venom light in her voice. “Didn’t know you were into undergrads.”
You smile — all teeth and patience.
“He’s into me. I was just being polite.”
Regina narrows her eyes.
“You always this full of yourself?”
“Only when I’m right.”
“About what?”
“That I never had to compete.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Regina’s mouth opens — then shuts. Her fingers curl around her clutch like a threat. She’s ready to fight. To bite. To lash out.
But you?
You just glance at her drink.
“Still doing vodka cranberries?” you ask, soft. “You always drink that when you’re pretending you’re fine.”
She blinks. And suddenly she’s naked under your gaze. Not literally. Worse. Emotionally.
How the hell do you know that?
You smile again — quieter this time.
Then you stand.
“It was nice catching up, Regina.”
You walk away before she can answer.
Because that’s what power is.
Walking away while they’re still standing there, wanting more.
----
She doesn’t cry.
Let’s start there.
Regina George does not cry over a girl who wears matching socks and walks like a closing argument.
She doesn’t sit on her bed and worry about someone else taking her power.
She just… spirals. Elegantly.
The lights are off.
The LED vanity’s still glowing faint pink.
Her phone is buzzing — Aaron liked her story. Shane sent a shirtless selfie. Someone from the lacrosse team asked if she was “free rn.”
And she’s never felt less wanted.
Why the hell won’t she look at me?
She paces again.
Her closet door is half open. Her lip gloss drawer is still slightly cracked. Everything in her room looks used. Touched. Lived in. And suddenly, she hates it.
Because you are untouched.
Unbothered.
Uncluttered.
Untouchable.
And it’s driving her insane.
She opens her phone again. Starts typing.
TO: Shane
You still wanna make Y/N jealous?
Meet me at 7AM tomorrow. Wear grey. I want them to see you.
Deletes it.
She doesn’t need you to see her with Shane.
She needs you to want to interrupt it.
She scrolls again. Finds a selfie she never posted — the one where her tank top hangs too low and her lips are parted just enough.
If she doesn’t flinch at this, she’s not human.
But she doesn’t post it.
Because you don’t play that game.
You don’t fight for attention.
You don’t beg for love.
You don’t even flinch when she walks by.
And it’s starting to make her feel like she’s the one auditioning.
“Nope,” she says to the mirror. “Absolutely not.”
She straightens her robe.
Sits at her desk.
Opens a notebook because her last little thing like this didn't even make your eye twitch — one of her old Burn Book ones with rhinestones and chaos scribbled into the spine.
She writes in pink ink:
OPERATION: RECLAIM POWER
Post thirst trap (but caption it like you’re laughing at something private. That gets her.)
Get Shane to walk you to class, touch your hip.
Make eye contact, then look away.
Pretend you forgot her name.
Or better — call her something wrong. Baby. Angel. Honey. Something sarcastic. Something flirty.
Make her wonder if you’re playing her back.
She pauses.
Bites her pen.
Adds:
Do NOT fall in love with her.
Seriously.
STOP IT.
Slams the notebook shut.
I’m Regina George. I don’t chase. I get chosen.
But god —
She’s starting to hate how it feels not to be picked.
----
The thirst trap goes up first.
A mirror pic, loose off-the-shoulder sweater and perfect hair, captioned:
“accidentally hot today 😅 oops”
It’s bait.
Perfect, shiny bait.
She posts it right before school. Times it with precision — knowing you’ll be on your phone sometime before first period, even if just for a second.
And if you don’t double tap?
Good.
That’s worse.
Next move?
Shane.
He’s already waiting by her locker like a well-trained accessory — hoodie on, smelling like Axe and sports anxiety.
He grins when she walks up, already slinging an arm around her shoulders.
“So, are we like... fake dating now or—”
“Shut up,” she says sweetly. “Just look cute.”
She laughs loud. Tosses her hair. Grabs his hand and pulls it to her hip.
Shane’s confused, but he doesn’t ask. Boys like him never do.
They start walking — down the hall.
Right past you.
You don’t stop.
You look.
Of course you look. But it’s so brief she almost misses it.
And then you nod — like you’re greeting a classmate, not the girl you once called breathtaking between bites of tiramisu.
Why does she always look like she knows something I don’t?
She laughs louder. Touches Shane’s shoulder. Throws a glance over at you like she’s unbothered, amused, barely interested.
But inside?
Inside, she’s watching your every breath.
--
Lunch comes.
You’re sitting alone. Not because you’re lonely — but because people leave you alone. There’s a difference.
She walks past your table, tray in hand, Shane trailing behind.
“Hi,” she says, voice sugary. “Didn’t see you there.”
You look up. Blink once. “Hi, Regina.”
Not ‘babe’? Not ‘gorgeous’? Nothing flirty?
She smiles — wide, blinding, fake.
“Did you see my story this morning?”
You sip your drink.
“Nope. I was busy.”
Busy.
BUSY???
Busy doing what? Being hotter than me by accident? Thinking about me and pretending not to?
Shane laughs at something she didn’t say.
She sits two tables away. But it’s not far enough to ignore the way you lean back in your chair. How calm you look. Like a storm made of manners.
Why won’t she just flinch? Why won’t she blink?
It’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to pretend this isn’t all slipping through her manicured fingers.
So at the end of the day, she tries one last thing.
A direct hit.
She finds you by your locker — alone again, like you planned it. Calm. Clean. Cool.
She smirks.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
You blink. “Yes?”
“Are you stalking me or something?” she smirks. “I feel like you keep appearing.”
You laugh — not mean, not amused. Just knowing.
“Regina, you’re the one standing in front of my locker.”
She doesn’t move.
You step in, just half a breath closer, and rest your hand — light, effortless — on her forearm.
Not a squeeze. Not a pull. Just a touch.
Warm. Brief. Intentional.
Her skin buzzes.
why did that feel like a threat disguised as a compliment
Your voice drops.
“But if you’re trying to make me jealous…”
Your thumb strokes her arm — barely there.
“…try harder.”
And with that, you let go.
Walk away.
Sunglasses on. Not looking back.
Again.
--
She goes to Aaron next.
Reignites that old flame in the hallway between chem and calculus.
They’re laughing too loud. She touches his arm too much. It’s rehearsed and obvious.
You stroll past them, slow and unbothered.
“Careful, Aaron,” you say. “Wouldn’t want you thinking she likes you again.”
She shoots daggers. You wink.
--
Then she grabs Shane again.
Lets him carry her bag. Sits close at lunch. Asks him to help her stretch before gym.
You lean against the lockers, sipping iced coffee like it’s an art form.
“You know he peaked in middle school, right?”
She glares at you.
You smile. “But hey, I love that you're giving back to the community.”
--
She wears short skirts and taller heels. Laughs at every boy’s joke. Posts thirst traps with misleading captions.
You comment once.
Just:
“Cute. But I like the dress you wore on our date better.”
Regina throws her hands up in exasperation when she reads it because please, explain why it still feels like you're winning whatever this not-game is.
--
She corners you at your locker one day — eyes sharp, gloss glinting.
“You bored yet?”
You cock a brow. “Of you? Not even close.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of chasing me?”
“Sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her shoulder, “you’ve been chasing my attention since the first day I walked in.”
Her breath catches.
And still. She doesn’t stop.
--
She walks into class late one morning wearing your jacket.
You know it’s yours — monogrammed on the sleeve, for god’s sake.
You lean forward in your seat.
“You look good in my clothes.”
“Didn’t say it was yours.”
“Didn’t say you could take it, either.”
You don’t ask for it back. But it did make you wonder how she got it.
--
She kisses Shane in front of you after 6th period one day — quick, performative, lips on his cheek but eyes on you.
You just grin while you pass them.
“A little sloppy,” you say, breezing past. “You usually aim higher.”
And for every cruel little power play she tosses your way?
You throw back a compliment that makes her knees weak.
Every move she makes to tip the scale?
You’re already tipping her off balance with nothing but a well-placed glance and a whispered line that lives in her head for days.
--
And when she finally storms up to you — cheeks flushed, mouth set, hands clenched at her sides?
You just tilt your head and say,
“Tell me, Regina. Are you trying to win this little war, or are you trying to get my attention?”
She doesn’t answer.
But her silence is screaming.
****
You decided to take Regina out on another date.
Finally, Regina thought, but you don't have to know that to survive.
She shows up looking like trouble.
You open the car door and smirk.
“God, you’re unreal,” you say, helping her in.
“Don’t start.”
“But I haven’t even told you you’re the most beautiful woman alive yet. Should I save it for dessert?”
She stares. “You’re exhausting.”
“And still, you showed up.”
--
At the rooftop, she looks around like she might start floating off the edge.
“What is this place?”
“Private. Quiet. Gorgeous.” You glance at her. “Just like you.”
She glares — but her lip twitches.
Seated, drinks served, she tries to gain ground.
“So. You’re rich. Mysterious. Confident. What’s the catch?”
You sip your drink.
“I cry during Pixar movies and I flirt like it’s a sport.”
She nearly chokes on her cocktail.
“You’re not that smooth.”
“You’re sitting across from me in a red dress. I think I am.”
The waiter brings over a shared dessert — chocolate ganache, edible gold, something ridiculous. She lifts a fork.
And it begins.
She slowly feeds herself a bite. Licks a bit from the corner of her lip, not breaking eye contact.
“You’re staring.”
“You want me to stop?”
She tilts her head. “And if I said yes?”
You smile. “Then I’d stop staring… and start touching.”
She makes a noise — half gasp, half threat.
“God, you’re so full of yourself.”
“Only when I’ve got something this delicious in front of me.”
She scoffs — but there’s heat in her cheeks, something she covers by throwing back the rest of her drink.
“You’re dangerous.”
“And you’re used to being the predator. How’s that working out for you?”
--
By the end of the night, she’s breathless.
Not from dancing. Not from the rooftop wind.
But from the way you make her feel like she’s never had the upper hand, not really.
Like the game changed the second you walked in the door.
And the worst part?
She likes it.
****
It starts with her pacing.
Back and forth, barefoot in her room, phone untouched on her bed, your last text still unread. You hadn’t even said anything suggestive—just:
“Don’t forget you’ve still got my jacket.”
Simple. Innocent. Torturous.
Because she hadn’t forgotten. She’d tried it on again this morning. And again just before dinner. And five minutes ago.
She sits. Stands. Swears.
She thinks about how you never begged. Never chased.
How you just were—charming and calm and terrifyingly composed.
How you never fought for her… and somehow that made her want to fight for you.
How you let her pull every petty move in the book, and you just kept showing up—chivalrous, infuriatingly patient, always three steps ahead.
It’s humiliating, really.
To know that you were never trying to win.
You just wanted her.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
She grabs her keys before she can stop herself.
----
You answer the door in a hoodie. Barefoot. Calm.
Like her showing up at 11:42 PM isn’t a category-five storm waiting to happen.
She doesn’t say hello.
She just walks in, stands in the middle of your living room like she’s been there before—because she has.
“I’m not doing this to be sweet,” she says.
You raise a brow. “Didn’t think you were.”
“And I’m not here because I’ve changed, or grown, or healed, or whatever bullshit you probably expect from people.”
You nod once. “Okay.”
“I’m still mean,” she says. “Still selfish. Still… so fucking scared of being the one who ends up with more to lose.”
You just look at her.
“You make not loving you so fucking hard,” she says finally, voice cracking right down the middle. “And I’ve tried. Believe me.”
"Trust me, I know."
Then:
“I don’t want to owe you anything,” she adds. “I don’t want to feel like I’ve been tamed, or reformed, or whatever happy ending cliché this looks like.”
You step forward—slowly.
“Then don’t owe me,” you say. “Just… stay.”
She blinks hard.
Then lets out a breath like surrender.
Like pulling the pin and handing it to you.
Like falling into something soft and terrifying.
She walks up. Wraps your jacket tighter around herself.
Summary: After finding out the truth behind Cady’s friendship with Regina, she tries to block everyone out, but you refuse to let her block you.”
A/N: I got Janis’s quote from YouTube, so that’s why it’s kinda long. Hope You Enjoy!
You stood in the back of the gym, watching as people went on stage, apologized to someone, before falling into the crowd.
There were funny moments that made you laugh like Karen telling everyone about Gretchen’s embarrassing moment at Barnes & Noble, or when Gretchen gave a smug comment about being the ‘fetchest of them all”.
Then it was Janis’s turn, which you knew was gonna be interesting, but you didn’t think it would be as bad as it actually was.
“Okay, so I have this friend named Cady, who’s a new student this year, and I convinced her to help me mess up Regina George’s life. I had her pretend to be friends with Regina, but really she’d come to my house afterward and we’d laugh about all the stupid things she said. Oh, and we gave her candy bars and told her that they make you lose weight when actually made her gain weight. We even turned her best friends against her! Then Cady made out with her boyfriend and convinced him to break up with her. God, it was so easy to ruin her world.”
The cheers of other students as they caught her fell deaf on your ears as you looked at Regina whose expression was scarily unreadable. That wasn’t a good thing, it meant she was in her head too much.
You went to move towards her, but she was already walking out the gym door and to the parking lot. Before you could follow her, you saw Cady rushing behind her, making your legs carry you faster.
Cady was practically running after Regina as you chased them both.
“Regina, wait!” She called out.
“No Cady, stop!” You yelled.
Cady paused, turning to look at you. “This isn’t about you, Y/n! Just because you're in love with her doesn’t mean you have to be in her business!”
You quickly grew quiet, not really knowing how to come back at her exposing you. To be fair, it was pretty obvious that you liked Regina, you just didn’t expect anyone to call you out on it.
“That doesn’t matter. She clearly doesn’t wanna talk to you after finding out how much of a lying bitch you are.”
Cady gasped, surprised at the name you called her.
“I don’t wanna talk to anyone!” Regina yelled as she crossed the road and got to her car.
You pushed Cady aside and ran across the street, just in time to make it to the passenger door. You tried to open it, but it was locked. “Regina, unlock the door.”
She ignored you as she cranked up the car and put it in reverse.
You quickly tugged at the door once more. “Regina, stop playing and unlock it.” She looked at you with a blank stare, igniting something inside you. “Unlock the goddamn door, Regina!”
Silence took over you two and everyone else who came out of the gym to be nosy. Without a word she unlocked it, allowing you to get in, and pulled off, the murmurs of her peers filling the parking lot.
You both rode in silence to god knows where. You just know she’s trying to get as far away from that school as possible.
As she continued to drive down a familiar road, you spoke up. “Make a right.”
She surprisingly complied without question, making a right and stopping at a scenic overlook. It was a beautiful view of the town you two lived in, the green trees and sky catching both of your attention.
“I come to this spot when I find myself stressed or overthinking about something.” You muttered while looking off.
Regina was still quiet, but you didn't pressure her to talk. You let silence take over you two, for once comforting her.
Gretchen would be pestering her about wanting to know what was wrong, while Karen wouldn’t have a clue she was upset, but with you, you actually understood her.
This was all she needed for once — a time to be alone with her own thoughts without having to worry about what others think of her.
You could hear quiet sniffles from her which pulled at your heart, but you didn’t make a move. You waited for her to give you the okay before comforting her.
“I’m so stupid.”
Your head snapped in her direction, an offended look coming to your face. “No you’re not.”
She ignored you. “I’m so fucking stupid.” She repeated, earning a shake of your head. “No you're not, stop saying that! You're more than that!”
Her sniffles stopped as she processed your words.
“Gosh Regina, I’m tired of hearing you always put yourself down when you’re the complete opposite of it! Everyone’s human, everyone makes mistakes, and just because you thought someone was your friend doesn’t mean you're stupid.”
The blonde was quiet still processing all you’ve said. This was clearly pissing you off, judging by the way you spoke with such emotion.
“I get that you’re all mad and upset with everyone, but don’t start degrading yourself, and don't block everyone out. At least keep me, please.” Your voice cracked as you begged, that little change catching Regina’s attention.
She looked at your face, seeing that you were already looking at her with such soft eyes. It made her calm down instantly, a deep breath being released from her mouth.
“You’re right.” She admitted. “I gotta stop keeping all my emotions to myself.”
Your hand sneaked over the center console and tested the water by covering hers. She quickly reacted by wrapping her hand around yours, your fingers interlocking.
“I’m not asking for you to keep your emotions to yourself, but to share them with me. You can block everyone you want, but please let me in.”
That day, you two came to the agreement on being there for each other mentally, but also starting something physically.
Warnings: sitting on a rooftop ledge (naturally), R talks of wanting to be alone and discomfort with getting close to people, Jessica drinking (as usual)
Summary: Jessica isn't a good comfort to anyone, and she isn't willing to be, but she tries with you. At some point, you only end up falling asleep, and she decided it was the only way she knew how.
Word Count: 2.5k
Category: Comfort, fluff
A/N: hi! this fic is ancient. its from the time I used to not post my fics publicly, and was unfinished. this was 4-5 years ago :] everyone mentally thank my friend @saturnsharpe for pulling me back into my jessica obsession and finishing this<3
| Started on 12/01/2022, 9:47 PM |
| Finished on 07/02/2026, 5:50 PM |
Main Masterlist | J.J Masterlist
Request Guidelines
"A.K.A Varied Minds."
|—————————— ⌞ + ⌝ ——————————|
It was a cold night. The city lights were piled by each building, and the motioning dots in the distance were cars, moving in the streets with their headlights on.
You watched from above, sat on the edge of the building. Music flowed from your headphones and into your ears.
Everything had gone by so much. It had been a really, really horrible day for today. More so, week. More so, year.
You weren't sure what to think of it anymore.
|—————————— ⌞ + ⌝ ——————————|
Out of your presence, the front door of the apartment opens. Jessica stood there, her raven black hair matching the shadows. She had been away at work, and only now arrived back home.
Her keys clinked in her hand, and she closes the door, locking it.
Somewhere along the wall, her hand found the light switch, making the office dimly lit by nearby lamps. She liked it like that. The bright lights were too much.
But as she walked in from the doorway, she realized just how quiet it was.
The office area was normal. Files piled up, and her laptop open, yet not turned on, and she saw no sign of you.
Her footsteps traveled down the hall, where she peeks through her bedroom, including the kitchen, but it was empty.
The bathroom too. Her knocks on the door were met with nothing, and the light was off anyway.
She paused, standing in her apartment with her eyebrows furrowed. You wouldn't go anywhere without telling her, she's aware of that.
But it didn't take long for her to connect it close to your state of living lately.
You hadn't exactly been upright or laughing much, at least to the point where she would half get annoyed and half amused.
It could be obvious to anyone. But much more for her. Even as she had cases, you were the most frequent to show up in her life other than Trish, so she's prone to notice whenever you seemed off from your usual character.
Luckily, there's only one place that stood out enough in her mind. It was a spot for some air. So, she let her legs lead, opening the door once again to go out.
While her steps went down the hallway, she could hear her noisy neighbours. Even with their doors closed, they'd always be a nuisance.
But for the moment, it was something she couldn't be bothered by. Priorities had their own turns.
As the elevator opens, she steps in, letting the doors close behind her.
Her hand presses the top button, and it lights up.
Slowly, it starts bringing her up, even with the bit of flickering in the ceiling light that she got used to over the years. Somehow, it was still working.
Somehow.
Maybe she should have used the stairs for a quicker way.
...Then again, she's too tired from the day.
Right as she was starting to think deep about you, and your situations, the elevator arrived.
The sight was quite familiar. A small hallway, connecting to the staircase, and the doors, right at the front.
Her boots echo through the space as she makes her way to the exit, reaching her hand out to open them.
When she got out, the wind hit her face, cold, and finding her hair. It flowed in the air, with all the sounds of the city in hearing distance.
There you were.
Jessica wraps her leather jacket tighter around herself. She only wished you'd find a better place to hide yourself at, really.
"I thought you said you were going to watch some movies," Jess spoke, walking to you.
There was a memory just from an hour ago, where you had a conversation before she went out.
It was where you playfully mentioned stealing her laptop. She warned you to stay off and away from the info she had stored on there, but all at the same time, there was not much she could care about anyway. A lot, were also just old files.
Either way, she stood here now, looking at you, who wasn't sitting in her apartment somewhere with her laptop. And certainly not cozy looking.
You didn't respond to her comment. Not because you tried ignoring her. But with your headphones having music that had the volume going a little over the edge of normal, she could guess that you could barely even hear her.
As she goes closer, and was near enough, she joins you on the ledge.
"...Hey." You jump a little at her sudden call, and she wasn't surprised. It was clear you completely zoned out.
Her hands reach out slowly, hovering over your headphones. "Can I take these off?" There was hesitance in your face, but you just barely nod.
She was gentle, grasping it with a featherlight touch, and then taking it off.
You felt the air around you, rather than the warmth of the headphones. The sounds were clearer too.
Jess stares at you, holding it close. The music was still sounding out by the headphones. She then looks at it, pressing the pause button.
It went quiet aside the city.
She sighs softly.
"Your ears are gonna bleed if you keep listening like that, you know," Jessica says. You knew that well enough. But the silence passed by.
You could feel her gaze on you from your side. Like she was trying to read you, almost.
She was aware of how quiet you exactly were. Too quiet. “...You alright?”
Everything felt a little far from your body. And even with the music off, you felt like you still weren't fully there.
But you answered anyway. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
She stared at your hands, fiddling in your lap. The situation on the other hand, hung in the air.
For a moment, she just let her thoughts wander in choosing decision, but at once she sighs, and spoke up again. “Alright, I know how repressing feelings is like and I could do it all day too, but…” she shifts herself to lean back slightly.
“Come on.” You felt her nudge your shoulder, with a tilt of her body.
She had her usual look. It was barely visible in your peripheral, but familiar. Comforting. "...I'm not gonna sit here all day and ask," she said. "Just tell me."
It was easier to stare down at your hands. Each thought in your mind raced, and raced, but you couldn't grasp each one.
“...Unless it’s about the clients I keep declining," she had to add.
At that, you huff out a small quiet laugh, turning your head to look at her once more. The view that greets you was her tilting her head in question.
She searches your eyes as she waited. It was Jessica. You could tell her. But whether that was helpful, or in a result of her hunting anyone down for you, you weren't sure to.
To be fair, she knows that you're prone to shutdowns, and sometimes, she wasn't good with it. But it doesn't mean she never tries.
“It’s nothing, I swear.” You shook your head, staring back at your dangling feet on the edge of the building.
She raised her eyebrows instantly. "You must think I'm dumb." The words came out naturally. But it didn't change the situation.
Knowing that, she swallowed the rest of her words.
Her gaze goes back down toward the streets.
There was a couple there, walking together.
In moments, she could feel you pulling away. But...she spoke again.
"I don't like it when you're quiet, you know..." Jessica admits. The couple enters a car, probably to go home. "...quieter than usual."
You looked at her, turning your head. "...You want me to annoy you?" you whispered.
She looks at you.
Then, a deep breath enters her mouth. "...Can you at least come inside before we die of hypothermia?" She decides, changing the topic and standing.
She walked back, expecting you to come. After a few steps, she looks over her shoulder.
You were still just in the same spot, despite her hands holding the headphone you wore.
"Y/N. Come on. Don't make me drag you."
A sigh leaves her, as she walks back. You feel her gently grasping your wrist, and starting to pull.
"Hey--" You got away from the view carefully, yet rushedly, with her making you follow along.
Her face had a stern look, besides exhaustion, and almost...concern. It was something you had to process as she took you.
It didn't take long for you both to get to the elevator, where she traced back her steps. The doors close, and the space held silence.
It was obvious she knew your pattern well.
Being a private investigator, how could she not? Within days of seeing you trying to keep an appearance of being fine or whenever she saw you frowning while spaced out, she couldn't really brush past it.
Once the doors open, you go down the hall, hand still entangled, warm in hers.
She goes inside, letting you enter first. The door was then closed behind you, the lock clicking.
She had finally let go, which left you shifting on your feet as she passes by you. The headphones she placed down made a gentle sound against the desk.
Then she turned, and sat down at the couch, one leg going to prop up on it, outwardly.
"Talk." Jessica says, popping open a bottle of whiskey she had taken from her desk. You stare at her. "Fine..."
She then gestures to her side, and you followed in sitting down. When you saw her offer the whiskey, you resisted a smile, but shook your head.
"No," you answered simply.
She hums. "Too bad." After she spoke, the bottle was brought closer to her lips. She takes a small sip, just to start.
You gently leaned your head against her shoulder in a comfortable position, which made her nearly choke on her drink, but she swallowed it down anyway, even with the alcohol's burn heightening.
For the time being, she allowed you to. Because of what you were going through, or because she genuinely wanted to, thats something no one would know, but it at least it wasn't argued. And you weren't pushed away.
Jessica looked down at you. You were expecting her to point it out, but she looked like she just waited you to talk.
You take a deep breath, fiddling with your hands. "I...kinda just wanna be alone." you start, and her expressions remain neutral.
Since no words were spoken, you continue. "...Sit in my world, and then not let anyone get close, ever again." Thats when her eyebrows furrow, but another hum leaves her mouth. It sounds familiar enough to her.
"There's this...wrong feeling whenever someone gets to know me more and more, or talk about my interests, and it feels like...they step in the wrong place, a lot."
She stares at the floor of the apartment. "Like what they're doing is wrong?"
You nod, silently.
Jess blinks slowly as she thought about it, but she understood. There were rare moments she's had to face that same thing. Sharing something, and then regretting it. Except you seemed to be stuck on even neutral things, and her expression grew a little softer.
She then turned to you again. "And because of that, you're thinking about throwing everything away?"
The tips of your teeth sunk into your lip. It was something to distract with. Everything felt like it had a little ball of anxiety that sparks around your heart. "...Yeah. I mean...be alone...more," you answered.
She searches your eyes, processing, and resorting to a small nod.
Then she took a breath. "...Is that how you feel right now?"
You searched her brown, green hinted eyes. It was something you almost didn't want to answer. But it was a relief, from everything, with her beside you.
The few moments pass by with silence. "...I don't feel uncomfortable."
She raises her eyebrows. "...With me?" she asked, managing without a scoff, and more, surprise.
The only response you gave was a nod.
Her shoulders lower. Whether it was from relief or realization, it wasn't clear. "Okay. Then maybe you're just...sharing things with the wrong people." Her whiskey went again, with a small swig she took.
"There's people who suck...and people who suck more." It was true. You'd agree with her, but your mind was slipping.
Thankfully not from anxiety, but simply the mental exhaustion from constantly thinking.
It'd be a lie if you denied that her voice was starting to feel distant, but they were the softest they had ever been. Almost lulling.
Jessica continued. "You could be alone. But it doesn't mean its worth it because of some people, you know."
You rubbed the edge of your eyes, pressing your cheek against her shoulder, and letting your hand drop. "...I feel so guilty about it."
She stares at you. "Hey," the words went firmly, and gently.
"Its not your fault just because you're wired to react. Ever seen me look at PDA?" She shook her head. Your eyes blink slowly.
A soft sigh left her mouth. "You're letting them in your mind too much. Seriously."
She had droned on quietly in her mind, without even realizing that your eyes had closed. She was focused on how you felt and the way people are.
Even the whiskey bottle in her hand was forgotten.
Basically, her mind was going, in a summary; It wasn't easy in the world. Especially within social situations, that much she'd agree to the highest. But it was more so in annoyance than anything. Whats with some people these days anyway? Especially her neighbours. So weird.
And then--she looks down at you, and saw your sleeping form against her shoulder.
Her eyes blink, and she was still for a moment.
You were asleep. Against her. And your face was so peaceful.
In some, small thought, a part of her wishes that your mind could stay that way.
In contemplation, she looked around her apartment, gazing at the dark areas, and making sure the door was closed. She remembered locking it.
She then gave in with a knowing that her heart may regret, and very slowly, she brought her arm up.
It soon went hesitantly around you.
After a second, she pulls you closer, leaning back more comfortably against the couch.
Thats where she spent her next hours, unmoving, until she couldn't hold staying awake, and fell to sleep just the same as you.
FEEELIC I'm so happy you enjoyed it!! R is based on real past thoughts, so that may be why its relatable :') but jessica being just her is definitely a load taken off their weight
a late happy birthday to tom hiddleston that gave life to my favorite character of all times (loki laufeyson) and also the origin of my tumblr and user handle (thomas sharpe)
Warnings: sitting on a rooftop ledge (naturally), R talks of wanting to be alone and discomfort with getting close to people, Jessica drinking (as usual)
Summary: Jessica isn't a good comfort to anyone, and she isn't willing to be, but she tries with you. At some point, you only end up falling asleep, and she decided it was the only way she knew how.
Word Count: 2.5k
Category: Comfort, fluff
A/N: hi! this fic is ancient. its from the time I used to not post my fics publicly, and was unfinished. this was 4-5 years ago :] everyone mentally thank my friend @saturnsharpe for pulling me back into my jessica obsession and finishing this<3
| Started on 12/01/2022, 9:47 PM |
| Finished on 07/02/2026, 5:50 PM |
Main Masterlist | J.J Masterlist
Request Guidelines
"A.K.A Varied Minds."
|—————————— ⌞ + ⌝ ——————————|
It was a cold night. The city lights were piled by each building, and the motioning dots in the distance were cars, moving in the streets with their headlights on.
You watched from above, sat on the edge of the building. Music flowed from your headphones and into your ears.
Everything had gone by so much. It had been a really, really horrible day for today. More so, week. More so, year.
You weren't sure what to think of it anymore.
|—————————— ⌞ + ⌝ ——————————|
Out of your presence, the front door of the apartment opens. Jessica stood there, her raven black hair matching the shadows. She had been away at work, and only now arrived back home.
Her keys clinked in her hand, and she closes the door, locking it.
Somewhere along the wall, her hand found the light switch, making the office dimly lit by nearby lamps. She liked it like that. The bright lights were too much.
But as she walked in from the doorway, she realized just how quiet it was.
The office area was normal. Files piled up, and her laptop open, yet not turned on, and she saw no sign of you.
Her footsteps traveled down the hall, where she peeks through her bedroom, including the kitchen, but it was empty.
The bathroom too. Her knocks on the door were met with nothing, and the light was off anyway.
She paused, standing in her apartment with her eyebrows furrowed. You wouldn't go anywhere without telling her, she's aware of that.
But it didn't take long for her to connect it close to your state of living lately.
You hadn't exactly been upright or laughing much, at least to the point where she would half get annoyed and half amused.
It could be obvious to anyone. But much more for her. Even as she had cases, you were the most frequent to show up in her life other than Trish, so she's prone to notice whenever you seemed off from your usual character.
Luckily, there's only one place that stood out enough in her mind. It was a spot for some air. So, she let her legs lead, opening the door once again to go out.
While her steps went down the hallway, she could hear her noisy neighbours. Even with their doors closed, they'd always be a nuisance.
But for the moment, it was something she couldn't be bothered by. Priorities had their own turns.
As the elevator opens, she steps in, letting the doors close behind her.
Her hand presses the top button, and it lights up.
Slowly, it starts bringing her up, even with the bit of flickering in the ceiling light that she got used to over the years. Somehow, it was still working.
Somehow.
Maybe she should have used the stairs for a quicker way.
...Then again, she's too tired from the day.
Right as she was starting to think deep about you, and your situations, the elevator arrived.
The sight was quite familiar. A small hallway, connecting to the staircase, and the doors, right at the front.
Her boots echo through the space as she makes her way to the exit, reaching her hand out to open them.
When she got out, the wind hit her face, cold, and finding her hair. It flowed in the air, with all the sounds of the city in hearing distance.
There you were.
Jessica wraps her leather jacket tighter around herself. She only wished you'd find a better place to hide yourself at, really.
"I thought you said you were going to watch some movies," Jess spoke, walking to you.
There was a memory just from an hour ago, where you had a conversation before she went out.
It was where you playfully mentioned stealing her laptop. She warned you to stay off and away from the info she had stored on there, but all at the same time, there was not much she could care about anyway. A lot, were also just old files.
Either way, she stood here now, looking at you, who wasn't sitting in her apartment somewhere with her laptop. And certainly not cozy looking.
You didn't respond to her comment. Not because you tried ignoring her. But with your headphones having music that had the volume going a little over the edge of normal, she could guess that you could barely even hear her.
As she goes closer, and was near enough, she joins you on the ledge.
"...Hey." You jump a little at her sudden call, and she wasn't surprised. It was clear you completely zoned out.
Her hands reach out slowly, hovering over your headphones. "Can I take these off?" There was hesitance in your face, but you just barely nod.
She was gentle, grasping it with a featherlight touch, and then taking it off.
You felt the air around you, rather than the warmth of the headphones. The sounds were clearer too.
Jess stares at you, holding it close. The music was still sounding out by the headphones. She then looks at it, pressing the pause button.
It went quiet aside the city.
She sighs softly.
"Your ears are gonna bleed if you keep listening like that, you know," Jessica says. You knew that well enough. But the silence passed by.
You could feel her gaze on you from your side. Like she was trying to read you, almost.
She was aware of how quiet you exactly were. Too quiet. “...You alright?”
Everything felt a little far from your body. And even with the music off, you felt like you still weren't fully there.
But you answered anyway. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”
She stared at your hands, fiddling in your lap. The situation on the other hand, hung in the air.
For a moment, she just let her thoughts wander in choosing decision, but at once she sighs, and spoke up again. “Alright, I know how repressing feelings is like and I could do it all day too, but…” she shifts herself to lean back slightly.
“Come on.” You felt her nudge your shoulder, with a tilt of her body.
She had her usual look. It was barely visible in your peripheral, but familiar. Comforting. "...I'm not gonna sit here all day and ask," she said. "Just tell me."
It was easier to stare down at your hands. Each thought in your mind raced, and raced, but you couldn't grasp each one.
“...Unless it’s about the clients I keep declining," she had to add.
At that, you huff out a small quiet laugh, turning your head to look at her once more. The view that greets you was her tilting her head in question.
She searches your eyes as she waited. It was Jessica. You could tell her. But whether that was helpful, or in a result of her hunting anyone down for you, you weren't sure to.
To be fair, she knows that you're prone to shutdowns, and sometimes, she wasn't good with it. But it doesn't mean she never tries.
“It’s nothing, I swear.” You shook your head, staring back at your dangling feet on the edge of the building.
She raised her eyebrows instantly. "You must think I'm dumb." The words came out naturally. But it didn't change the situation.
Knowing that, she swallowed the rest of her words.
Her gaze goes back down toward the streets.
There was a couple there, walking together.
In moments, she could feel you pulling away. But...she spoke again.
"I don't like it when you're quiet, you know..." Jessica admits. The couple enters a car, probably to go home. "...quieter than usual."
You looked at her, turning your head. "...You want me to annoy you?" you whispered.
She looks at you.
Then, a deep breath enters her mouth. "...Can you at least come inside before we die of hypothermia?" She decides, changing the topic and standing.
She walked back, expecting you to come. After a few steps, she looks over her shoulder.
You were still just in the same spot, despite her hands holding the headphone you wore.
"Y/N. Come on. Don't make me drag you."
A sigh leaves her, as she walks back. You feel her gently grasping your wrist, and starting to pull.
"Hey--" You got away from the view carefully, yet rushedly, with her making you follow along.
Her face had a stern look, besides exhaustion, and almost...concern. It was something you had to process as she took you.
It didn't take long for you both to get to the elevator, where she traced back her steps. The doors close, and the space held silence.
It was obvious she knew your pattern well.
Being a private investigator, how could she not? Within days of seeing you trying to keep an appearance of being fine or whenever she saw you frowning while spaced out, she couldn't really brush past it.
Once the doors open, you go down the hall, hand still entangled, warm in hers.
She goes inside, letting you enter first. The door was then closed behind you, the lock clicking.
She had finally let go, which left you shifting on your feet as she passes by you. The headphones she placed down made a gentle sound against the desk.
Then she turned, and sat down at the couch, one leg going to prop up on it, outwardly.
"Talk." Jessica says, popping open a bottle of whiskey she had taken from her desk. You stare at her. "Fine..."
She then gestures to her side, and you followed in sitting down. When you saw her offer the whiskey, you resisted a smile, but shook your head.
"No," you answered simply.
She hums. "Too bad." After she spoke, the bottle was brought closer to her lips. She takes a small sip, just to start.
You gently leaned your head against her shoulder in a comfortable position, which made her nearly choke on her drink, but she swallowed it down anyway, even with the alcohol's burn heightening.
For the time being, she allowed you to. Because of what you were going through, or because she genuinely wanted to, thats something no one would know, but it at least it wasn't argued. And you weren't pushed away.
Jessica looked down at you. You were expecting her to point it out, but she looked like she just waited you to talk.
You take a deep breath, fiddling with your hands. "I...kinda just wanna be alone." you start, and her expressions remain neutral.
Since no words were spoken, you continue. "...Sit in my world, and then not let anyone get close, ever again." Thats when her eyebrows furrow, but another hum leaves her mouth. It sounds familiar enough to her.
"There's this...wrong feeling whenever someone gets to know me more and more, or talk about my interests, and it feels like...they step in the wrong place, a lot."
She stares at the floor of the apartment. "Like what they're doing is wrong?"
You nod, silently.
Jess blinks slowly as she thought about it, but she understood. There were rare moments she's had to face that same thing. Sharing something, and then regretting it. Except you seemed to be stuck on even neutral things, and her expression grew a little softer.
She then turned to you again. "And because of that, you're thinking about throwing everything away?"
The tips of your teeth sunk into your lip. It was something to distract with. Everything felt like it had a little ball of anxiety that sparks around your heart. "...Yeah. I mean...be alone...more," you answered.
She searches your eyes, processing, and resorting to a small nod.
Then she took a breath. "...Is that how you feel right now?"
You searched her brown, green hinted eyes. It was something you almost didn't want to answer. But it was a relief, from everything, with her beside you.
The few moments pass by with silence. "...I don't feel uncomfortable."
She raises her eyebrows. "...With me?" she asked, managing without a scoff, and more, surprise.
The only response you gave was a nod.
Her shoulders lower. Whether it was from relief or realization, it wasn't clear. "Okay. Then maybe you're just...sharing things with the wrong people." Her whiskey went again, with a small swig she took.
"There's people who suck...and people who suck more." It was true. You'd agree with her, but your mind was slipping.
Thankfully not from anxiety, but simply the mental exhaustion from constantly thinking.
It'd be a lie if you denied that her voice was starting to feel distant, but they were the softest they had ever been. Almost lulling.
Jessica continued. "You could be alone. But it doesn't mean its worth it because of some people, you know."
You rubbed the edge of your eyes, pressing your cheek against her shoulder, and letting your hand drop. "...I feel so guilty about it."
She stares at you. "Hey," the words went firmly, and gently.
"Its not your fault just because you're wired to react. Ever seen me look at PDA?" She shook her head. Your eyes blink slowly.
A soft sigh left her mouth. "You're letting them in your mind too much. Seriously."
She had droned on quietly in her mind, without even realizing that your eyes had closed. She was focused on how you felt and the way people are.
Even the whiskey bottle in her hand was forgotten.
Basically, her mind was going, in a summary; It wasn't easy in the world. Especially within social situations, that much she'd agree to the highest. But it was more so in annoyance than anything. Whats with some people these days anyway? Especially her neighbours. So weird.
And then--she looks down at you, and saw your sleeping form against her shoulder.
Her eyes blink, and she was still for a moment.
You were asleep. Against her. And your face was so peaceful.
In some, small thought, a part of her wishes that your mind could stay that way.
In contemplation, she looked around her apartment, gazing at the dark areas, and making sure the door was closed. She remembered locking it.
She then gave in with a knowing that her heart may regret, and very slowly, she brought her arm up.
It soon went hesitantly around you.
After a second, she pulls you closer, leaning back more comfortably against the couch.
Thats where she spent her next hours, unmoving, until she couldn't hold staying awake, and fell to sleep just the same as you.
